


we will meet again

by ls201



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Reincarnation, Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Canonical Character Death, F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-15
Updated: 2016-12-18
Packaged: 2018-05-26 19:12:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 11
Words: 60,376
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6252082
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ls201/pseuds/ls201
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After Lexa's death, Clarke is a mess. She doesn't leave her room, and after a few weeks, her friends and mother stop trying to get her out. Her grief is all-encompassing. But then Titus offers her a way out: Clarke and Lexa were soulmates. They have been destined to meet in many different lifetimes and fall in love, only to be torn apart by tragedy. He has a way for Clarke to re-live all these lifetimes. The offer's a good one; Clarke thinks it could give her some semblance of closure. There's just one catch: Clarke will see Lexa die, over and over again -- and if she ever tries to stop it, she could destroy every life she's ever had.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. one

**Author's Note:**

> Hi! I'm honored to be writing for this community; Lexa and Clarke are very special characters, and I hope to do them justice. I also hope you enjoy this story; writing has always been one of my passions. If you don't, that's fine :) If you do, then yay! Feel free to leave a comment, it would make me a very happy lady!
> 
> Right off the bat, I should let you know that I'm basically only up-to-date with Lexa and Clarke's relationship in the 100. I'm not really up-to-date on anything else going on in the show, so if I make a mistake or an error, please let me know. I will be happy to correct it! 
> 
> Finally, updates will come sporadically, as I am a student and therefore my schedule can be kind of wacky.
> 
> Thank you for reading.  
> -L

_one._

"You were right, Clarke. Life is about more than just surviving.” The words ring in Clarke’s ears constantly; they haunt her during the day and torment her at night. Moving on is what she’s supposed to be doing, for the good of her people, for the good of _herself_ , but how can she move on if Lexa’s all that consumes her thoughts? It wasn’t supposed to be this hard. Lexa wasn’t supposed to go this soon. But here she is, and Clarke’s lost, completely mystified by these overwhelming emotions. The only thing she can compare it to is drowning. (She’d tripped and fallen in the river not too long after arriving on the ground, so she remembers the experience.) It’s like having the water tugging at you, trying to pull you down into its inky depths, and every time you get your head out and breathe for five seconds, you go back under. Replace “water” with “grief,” and it’s an accurate analogy, in Clarke’s opinion.

 

Bellamy doesn’t understand it. Well, to clarify — he understands _grief_ , but he can’t understand why she mourns Lexa. Clarke’s pretty sure that he’s always thought of the former commander as a savage, a brute compared to the overly civilized people of the Ark. She doesn’t blame him, though she wonders if Octavia’s ever reprimanded him for it. 

 

Her mother tries to understand, but she can’t either. She only knows grief in medical terms, the shiny pages of textbooks and the cold, gleaming metal of examination rooms. It’s true that Abby mourned Clarke’s father in her own way after he was floated, but she never let her grief totally encompass her like Clarke has. Abby’s always been the type to get up, brush off the pain, and keep moving. Clarke’s not like that; she can’t do it. With Wells, Finn, her father — it was possible. She did her best, and the unfeeling blank canvas of her jail cell especially helped when it came to her dad. But Lexa was the one ray of light in a world that was trying to smother Clarke completely. Lexa made her feel so deeply that Clarke’s not sure if she even knows what emotions are anymore. Lexa was special, and it sounds so cliché, Clarke knows that, but it’s true. And she can’t move on. She _won’t_.

 

To their credit, Clarke’s people have let her be. They’ve got strategies to create and plans to make, and they don’t need a dead weight like her dragging them down, so it’s probably more of a logical thing than a compassionate one — but still, she appreciates it. She probably seems like a melodramatic teenager to them, another irritating obstacle to try to overcome. It’s pitiful, really — going from the revered “ _Wanheda_ ” to a girl who locks herself in her room all day in a matter of minutes. Bellamy, Raven, Octavia, her mother, even Jaha — they all try to drag her out, try to make her go and do something with them, but Clarke won’t let them, and after a few weeks, they’ve stopped trying. They have more lives to think of than just hers, and that’s okay, she respects that. 

 

It’s been about a month since Lexa’s death. She hasn’t heard who the new Commander is, but she prays the Conclave went well. If Clarke had the ability to hope anymore, she’d hope for Aden to be the chosen one, but all of her hope died with Lexa, so instead she just forces herself to accept that it’s probably some random Nightblood sitting on Lexa’s throne. 

 

A week ago, Clarke started a new routine. She knew her body was craving fresh air, so she snuck into the food storage and packed a lunch and some water. She ventured into the forest, walked for about an hour, ate, and then turned back around. Every day since, she’s gone a little farther, gotten a little closer to the city that holds the remnants of Lexa. And today, she’s going to go all the way. She’s going to Polis.

 

She leaves before the sun rises; she has to depart early if she wants to make it to Polis and back by nightfall. The satchel of food over her shoulder is heavy, filled with plenty of bottles of water and lots of high-protein snacks. Clarke won’t forgive herself if she can’t make it to Polis because she’s too weak.

 

It’s a nice day out, she thinks, shifting the satchel’s position on her back. The sun is rising now, creating a pink and purple sky so ethereally beautiful that Clarke would believe it if someone told her it was a painting.Sometimes Earth astounds her with its ability to be so gorgeous. How can something so potentially lethal be so utterly captivating? _Then again, Lexa was like that too._ Her chest stings at the thought, and Clarke wishes her heart would just shut up for five seconds and let her brain take the reins.

 

She hikes for hours, her logical side fighting her emotional side the entire time. Her brain tells her that this is stupid, to go back, asks her what will happen if the new Commander isn’t so welcoming and orders her killed. Meanwhile, her heart sings with every step closer to Polis — it’s a bittersweet tune, and more bitter than sweet, but still, it’s enough to keep her going.

 

When she smells the combination of smoke and earth that is the scent of Polis, Clarke stops. She’s a mile away from one of the entrances to the city; it’s a smaller, lesser-used entrance, so there’s only two guards stationed there, but she doesn’t want to take any chances. It could be that the new Commander doesn’t like _Skaikru_ and has ordered her to be shot on sight; that’s a fear Clarke particularly worries about if Ontari has become the new _heda_ , as after what Lexa did to their Queen, Clarke’s close relationship with her probably made the Ice Nation hate her, too. 

 

Clarke leans up against a tree and just _breathes_. The scent of Polis is comforting to her, and the sounds of Trigedasleng from the guards nestle in her ears and makes her think of her Grounder nickname. _Wanheda._ There’s a tear sliding down her cheek, and Clarke chuckles bitterly to herself. Would they still call her the commander of death now, if they saw her like this? Crying over the death of a girl she only knew for a few months? It’s stupid to fall in love with a Commander; Indra, Octavia, and Titus had all reminded her of this many times, particularly in the last few weeks before Lexa’s passing. But she hadn’t listened, she’d made herself vulnerable, and now she couldn’t serve or protect her people like she’d always said she would. _Pathetic. Lexa would be so disappointed in you. She never let feelings get in the way of protecting_ her _people._ Clarke closed her eyes, willing the nasty little voices in her head to shut up and leave her in peace for once.

 

When the voices go quiet and let her just exist for a moment, Clarke thinks she can feel Lexa’s presence, sidling up to her and whispering in her ear. _Relax,_ Klark kom skaikru. _My people will not harm you, and neither will I._

 

Clarke’s eyes fly open. Wait. She’s not imagining this, and that’s not Lexa in her ear. It’s Titus.

 

Clarke blinks for a second, not trusting her own eyes. She’s not sure what’s worse: the fact that, after killing her lover, Titus has the sheer _nerve_ to even talk to her, or how he’s standing over her with a knife to her throat.

 

She doesn’t try to escape. It would only be pointless, and some small, secret part of Clarke prays that Titus will kill her. _Wouldn’t that be better than this endless cycle of grief?_ Clarke curls her hands into fists and tries to shove that part of her away. It’s a dark portion of her mind, and she hates it, especially in vulnerable moments such as these.

 

Maybe it’s muscle memory from the last time a Grounder had her trapped like this, but Clarke spits in Titus’s face, rather ungracefully. He doesn’t even flinch; maybe he was expecting it. “If you’re going to kill me, hurry up and get it over with,” Clarke snarls. “Otherwise, get off of me and tell me why the hell you just put a knife to my throat.” It’s more of an angry whisper than a snarl, really, as she still doesn’t want to arouse the suspicion of the guards nearby, but it works. Titus’s eyes darken for a moment, but he pulls the knife back and holds it by his side.

 

“I believe I just told you that I do not wish to harm you, Clarke,” Titus says, voice low. “The knife was merely a method I used to ensure that you could not run away when you saw me, because what I have to say is rather important.” 

 

“If it’s another apology, I don’t want to hear it,” Clarke hisses, picking up her satchel from where it fell to the ground and slinging it over her shoulder. “It’s going to be dark soon, and I need to start heading back.” She goes to move, but Titus gently pushes her back against the tree, maybe a little more forcefully than intended as Clarke winces at the scraping of bark against her thin T-shirt.

 

“Believe me when I say that I have a million lifetimes’ worth of apologies I could say to you, Clarke, and I would mean them all,” Titus insists. Clarke’s not sure, but she thinks she sees his eyes go a little glossy at this. He lets out a sigh. “But I know those apologies would not matter to you, and they would not make up for my errors in the least.” _So that’s what you want to call Lexa’s death? An error? You tried to kill me, your_ commander _took the bullet, and you consider those to be errors?_ Clarke’s blood is boiling. She’s not going to be able to stand this much longer. “So I brought something much more valuable,” Titus finishes. His hand reaches into a hidden pocket in his shirt and closes around something. He gestures for Clarke to extend her own hand, and so she does, leaving her palm slightly curled like she’s feeding a horse.

 

Something drops into her hand. It’s a glass vial, filled with a purple-tinted liquid. Clarke looks at it questioningly, waiting for Titus to explain further. But after a few moments, it’s clear that Titus thinks she already knows what this is.

 

“I’m not following,” Clarke says, brow furrowed. Titus looks surprised.

 

“ _Heda_ never told you about this?” he says.

 

“No.”

 

“Then I suppose I will have to.” Titus sighs. “Our people have been making this potion since we knew how. It’s meant for someone who has lost their soulmate.”

 

“You think Lexa and I were soulmates?” Clarke asks.

 

“She did,” Titus responds. “If she hadn’t thought you to be her soulmate, she wouldn’t have instructed me to give this potion to you if anything happened to her.”

 

Clarke’s cheeks flush. The fact that Lexa thought they were soulmates has her torn between wanting to cry and wanting to smile. Instead, she chooses to continue to listen to Titus.

 

“This potion enables you to see all the previous reincarnations that you and your soulmate have had,” Titus explains. “You may not be reincarnated every century. You may not be reincarnated every millennia. But at least once, you and Lexa were soulmates that did not end up together, which is why you were not able to be happy in this timeline, either. If you drink this, you will have to relive all of those lifetimes, and experience everything once more. But you will get to see Lexa; granted, with a different name and in a different time, but the same at her core.” 

 

Clarke knows her eyes are probably bigger than plates right now. “But won’t that hurt? Losing Lexa over and over again?” she asks, biting her lip.

 

Titus shrugs. “If you believe that the pain is worth what you may gain, then take the potion. It may provide you closure to see her again. If you do not feel it is worth it, then do not take the potion. Either way, my duty is done. I have repaid you for the pain I caused, and my soul may be at peace.” He raises his knife, and Clarke freezes. Was this all just a ruse, a way for him to distract her long enough so that he could quickly and easily get rid of her? 

 

“Please, don’t — ” Clarke begins to beg, but Titus cuts her off.

 

“Relax,” he says with a wave of his hand. “This is not for you.” He holds the knife to his throat, and meets Clarke’s eyes. “One last word of advice for you, _Klark kom skaikru_. Do not try to alter the future. Do not try to save Lexa or make her aware of the reincarnations. Otherwise, you could destroy the future for all of us.” With those words, Titus pulls the knife across his jugular, sending a spray of crimson across the front of Clarke’s shirt and making him crumple to the ground, clutching at his neck.

 

The world seems to spin in slow motion as Clarke falls to Titus’s side and kneels by him, trying to stop the bleeding with her hands but failing miserably. Titus tries to push her away, and he’s gurgling something, but Clarke can’t understand him. With what seems to be his last remnants of strength, Titus rasps, “Run away, Clarke. Run _now_. Or they will kill you.”

 

And suddenly, Clarke understands. The Grounders. They’ll think she murdered Titus, and they’ll have her head. She will face the same fate as Finn, and the new Commander likely won’t be as merciful as Lexa was. 

 

Her body has gone into survival mode, and she has no time to feel guilty about leaving the dying man or to make sure his last moments are filled with comfort. Clarke picks up the potion, where she’d abandoned it on the ground when Titus slit his throat, and shoves it into her pocket. Then she _runs_ , faster than she’s ever gone before, adrenaline and fear coursing through her veins. When she’s about a few miles away, she hears Grounder shouts, and knows she doesn’t have much time before they figure out it was her. After all, Clarke realizes with a panted curse, she left her pack behind, and that will certainly be traced back to Camp Jaha. From there, it’s just a matter of deciding who the most likely suspect is — and the _Wanheda_ is sure to be number one on that list.

 

When Clarke’s lungs burn and she can’t run anymore, she stops in her tracks, doubling over and breathing heavily. Every gasp is torture, her body screaming at her, but she only allows herself a minute to recover before she continues on, wishing she’d thought to bring the water back with her. All she has right now is the potion.

 

It’s sunset when Clarke reaches Camp Jaha. As she enters the camp, her mother passes by her, and starts asking questions about where she’s been and why there’s blood on her shirt and if she’s okay, but Clarke just keeps walking, breaking into a jog as she nears her room. Abby’s following too close for comfort, and when Clarke slams the door in her mother’s face and locks it, she feels a small pang of regret in her chest when her mother begins to freak out and bang on the door. When Abby threatens to go get Jaha and Bellamy to break the door down, however, Clarke knows she doesn’t have much time left.

 

She pulls the potion out of her pocket and holds it in shaking hands, unable to do anything but stare at the vial that could change her life. Clarke doesn’t have much going for her now — she knows that. In less than an hour, Grounders will probably be here to arrest her and execute her for Titus’s death, and Lexa isn’t around to save her. She’s a dead weight that her mother, Raven, Octavia, and Bellamy are all being forced to carry around. Clarke doesn’t want to _be that_ anymore. She wants to at least explore something new, because she’s reached a dead end with her mourning. Her grief does not make her human and real anymore; now, Clarke thinks, it makes her weak. It makes her a liability.

 

She needs to remember. She needs to see all the times that she and Lexa have loved and lost. Maybe it will serve as a reminder that they just weren’t meant to be. Maybe it will just be comforting to get to hold Lexa one last time, even if she goes by a different name. But Clarke needs to at least be able to tell herself that she tried.

 

Metal screeches behind her, and voices are yelling. With a start, Clarke realizes that her mother has actually followed through and retrieved Bellamy and Jaha. She has to make a decision, _now_.

 

She screws the cap off of the potion, throwing it to the floor. Abby’s screaming, begging her not to do anything rash. Clarke throws her head back. There’s a loud bursting noise as the door finally gives way under Jaha and Bellamy’s combined strength. Everything is tingling, and Clarke swears she can see every particle that makes up this cold room. Her chest hurts so terribly, she feels like her heart must be bursting.

 

There’s a white-hot flash of pain in her head, and the last thing Clarke sees is her mother, running to her side and taking her daughter in her arms, crying. 

 

Then everything fades to black. 


	2. two

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Clarke meets Lexa's first reincarnation.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> warning: there is some violence in this chapter.
> 
> thank you for all your support. i am honestly stunned, but of course incredibly happy. i hope you enjoy this chapter. the ending of it was rather emotional for me, not gonna lie, i cried writing it.
> 
> note: lexa and clarke have different names for each reincarnation. i did this because i personally would not be able to convincingly write a character who, for example, lived during the renaissance if her name was "lexa". the same goes for "clarke", especially because clarke didn't really become a popular gender-neutral name until probably the early 2000s at least. so, all of lexa's reincarnations will have a name that begins with A or L, and all of clarke's reincarnations will have a name that begins with C. i tried to choose names that i felt would fit them. i hope you are able to connect with these names and the stories of these reincarnations as i did :)
> 
> i cannot wait to see where this story will go. as always, thank you for reading. 
> 
> xo,  
> L

_two._

At first, Clarke’s not sure if she’s dead, unconscious, or hallucinating. All she knows is that she’s in a bedroom with walls of stone, on a bed with a carved wooden headboard that is far more elaborate than anything Clarke’s used to. A few candles provide a weak source of light, but Clarke still has to strain her eyes to make out the more minute details of her surroundings. There’s a few large trunks scattered around the room, one open to reveal furs and velvet dresses.Scripts and scrolls Clarke can’t read lie on the desk in the corner, while intricate tapestries on the walls tell stories of faeries and noble knights who saved the kingdom. With a start, she realizes she’s been transported back to the Middle Ages, a time she’d only read about in her textbooks on the Ark.

 

“Calla!” someone thunders from outside the door. It’s large, wooden, and definitely heavy, but it swings open effortlessly as a large figure storms into the room. It’s a woman, burly and broad-shouldered, with frizzy gray hair and, from what Clarke can tell, brown eyes that let her know she’s in trouble.

 

“Calla, you stupid wench! Sleeping in the lady’s bedroom! Get up, _now_!” hisses the woman. _Oh._ So here, wherever “here” is, she’s Calla. Not Clarke Griffin. Calla.

 

Clarke does what the woman asks. She swings her legs over the side of the bed and stands up, shaking out the skirts of the long cotton gown she wears. Judging by the fact that her clothes were rather plain, her hair was up and out of her face, and this woman was speaking to her in the brusque manner of an angered employer, Clarke could only assume that she was a servant of some sort — presumably to the “lady” her employer had mentioned. 

 

The woman hurries out into the hall, and Clarke follows closely behind. The hall is more properly lit than the bedroom, and when Clarke looks at her hands, she sees that they’re rough, callused from years of hard work. Her boss’s hands are of a similar caliber.

 

“You have a busy day ahead of you, and yet here you are, sleeping in the bedroom of the woman who you will serve for the rest of your days,” the woman says scoldingly. In the back of her mind, Clarke has the faint realization that her brain or the potion must be translating Medieval speak to the English that Clarke grew up with, as it makes no sense for this woman to be speaking so modernly. Clarke guesses that when she eventually is forced to respond to her, her words will be translated into the language that “Calla” would speak.

 

They reach the end of the hallway and now face down a door, slightly smaller than the one that led to the bedroom. “The lady is waiting for you,” the woman says. “Go.” Clarke slowly opens the door, wincing as it creaks loudly, and scampers into the room as it closes behind her. In Calla’s body, she’s lighter, more nimble. She feels more like a mouse than a _Wanheda_.

 

This room is a gathering area of some sort for women; girls in elaborate dresses and headpieces are gathered around a table, sitting primly in chairs and either reading or sewing. They all look up at Clarke the second she enters the room, and she’s never felt so self-conscious before.

 

“Can we help you?” one of the women snaps. She’s dressed in a gown of rich red velvet, fur lining her sleeves and collar. Jewels drip from her throat, but the sour expression on her face is her most notable accessory. 

 

“Calm yourself, Guin. This is my new helper, Calla.” The voice comes from behind Clarke, and she realizes that this other person must have entered the room when the rude woman distracted her. The voice is sweet, calm and low, and something about it pokes at Clarke’s heart. If this woman’s personality is anything like her voice, Clarke won’t mind working for her too much.

 

Clarke turns around to face her new employer. And when she does, her mind temporarily stops functioning. All she can do is freeze in place and gape at the woman before her, because she’s so familiar. _Too_ familiar. This woman is like a work of art, high cheekbones, vivid green eyes, and brown hair that is hidden under a headpiece for now, but if Clarke were to check it, she’s sure there would be wild curls underneath. Full lips curve into a soft smile directed her way.

 

Titus wasn’t lying. Lexa and Clarke must be soulmates, because here she is, Lexa reincarnated, standing right in front of her and probably thinking she’s a crazy person. 

 

“Lady Alainne Woodville.” Lexa’s clone curtsies. “Pleased to make your acquaintance, Miss Calla.”

 

“The same to you,” Clarke responds breathlessly, heart still stuck in her throat.

 

“I’m afraid I’ll need your help already. I am dining with my parents tonight, and I will need to look more presentable than I currently do,” Alainne explains. “Come with me to my chambers, please.” 

 

As they exit the room and wind through the hallways, Clarke can only stare at the woman leading the way. _Alainne Woodville_ … Well, it makes sense that Lexa wouldn’t be called “Lexa” during the Medieval Ages, and Alainne fits her, actually. It’s sweet yet regal, and calls the _heda_ life to mind.

 

Alainne’s gown swishes with every step she takes. Clarke would have loved to see Lexa in a dress like that, she thinks absent-mindedly. It’s a forest green hue that looks beautiful against Alainne’s brown curls, and while it’s pretty with the lady’s alabaster skin, Clarke knows it would have been stunning paired with Lexa’s tanned complexion. The dress has long, wrist-length sleeves that hang open wide — bell sleeves, she thinks they're called. The lace-up back sits low enough that it shows the tops of Alainne’s slim shoulders, and the gown fits well, showing off the curves and hips that Lexa always hid under armor.

 

Apart from the differences in dress and skin color, Alainne appears to be the same as Lexa. She has all of Lexa’s little mannerisms — tilting her chin when she’s speaking to Clarke, clasping her hands behind her back, that irritatingly-straight posture. Clarke can’t tear her eyes away, even though every cell in her body is begging her to. Every second she spends with Alainne is hurting her heart, and she’s getting a headache from how badly she wants to just burst into sobs, like she’s a toddler again. 

 

They stop as they reach the heavy door that Clarke recognizes to be the bedroom she woke up in. Alainne turns around, opening her mouth to say something, but frowns as she looks Clarke over. “Are you — are you crying, Calla?” she asks, brow furrowed.

 

“What?” Clarke swipes the back of her hand across her cheek, and sure enough, it’s wet with tears. Maybe her body is so used to crying that she automatically doesn’t notice it. She’s upset that Alainne saw; she doesn’t want to seem suspicious. Titus’s words echo in her mind: _Do not try to save Lexa or make her aware of the reincarnations. Otherwise, you could destroy the future for all of us._ As badly as she wants to, she can’t tell Alainne that she’s really a 20-year-old commander of 13 clans in a post-apocalyptic universe. Even if it didn’t destroy the future timelines, it would still probably terrify the other girl — it does sound pretty crazy.

 

“I understand. This is your first year away from home. It can be difficult to leave your parents for the first time.” Alainne smiles gently at her, and Clarke’s heart throbs. The nostalgia is so intense and bittersweet, seeing those same full lips curl into that same beautiful grin. It makes her think of her Polis days, and the hour she spent with Lexa before she died. With that thought, the happier memories are quickly overtaken by a flood of sadder ones, and Clarke forces herself to shut them off and focus on Alainne.

 

“Thank you, my lady. I apologize,” Clarke murmurs, easily slipping into what she assumes would be the niceties and manners of a servant. “It was not proper for me to have an outburst like that.”

 

“Do not trouble yourself with trivial worries such as those,” Alainne chides her, opening the door to her room. “With me, you do not have to hide how you feel or who you are. You may be my servant, but you are still a human being, and a fellow woman at that. Women should try to support each other as much as we can; we already have so many things against us in this world, do we not?” The girl beams at her, and Clarke can feel herself smiling back. Alainne has a point there, but her words only highlight yet another similarity between the lady and the commander: their beliefs. Lexa had always been an active supporter of feminism (though she didn’t know that was the word for it) and equality for all. It’s a little shocking to see such a progressive mindset in a setting such as this.

 

“Thank you,” Clarke breathes. Alainne only grins wider, and Clarke wonders how her soul has been so lucky to find someone so amazing twice.

 

∞

It’s tough for a girl as independent as Clarke to adjust to the life of a servant, where everything you say and do comes back to bite you, and the simplest errors can majorly offend the most powerful people (like Guin). However, the environment is similar to her own world in that Clarke cannot afford to be selfish; her own needs come last here, just as they did at Camp Jaha. That’s one thing she doesn’t have to adjust to.

 

Alainne proves to surprise Clarke every day with various new facets of her personality. She likes to read, sing, and dance — all things Clarke never saw Lexa do for pleasure — and she’s so innocent that it almost hurts. Clarke actually _enjoys_ serving her, because who wouldn’t like to walk into a room with someone’s breakfast and see them flash a beautiful smile your way, or braid someone’s hair and have them offer to braid yours, too? It’s crazy; Alainne embodies all the sides of Lexa that Clarke never got to see, all the private traits and quirks that the commander kept securely hidden within her, like a needle lost in a haystack. 

 

It makes her ache for Lexa and the love that she could have experienced, but it’s also kind of great. Clarke doesn’t really have any control over Calla’s feelings; the way she sees it, she’s just reliving Calla’s story through her own eyes. But she can tell that Calla is falling in love with Alainne, and Alainne is falling in love with Calla. And it’s mesmerizing to watch; she has to wonder if Titus and Indra felt the same way as they observed the evolution of Lexa and Clarke’s relationship. Probably not, since they believed Clarke to be such a great threat to Lexa’s duties and life. (It makes her head split with pain to think about how they were right.) 

 

Clarke also enjoys the opportunity to get to explore Earth as it was before the war. It’s calmer, not tinged with death or damaged by radiation like the Earth she’s used to. The flowers all have their proper amount of petals and the deer don’t have two heads. Of course, being a Medieval woman, Alainne’s not allowed out much, but Clarke relishes the opportunities that do come up.

 

What feels like a month passes by before Clarke experiences the first sign of trouble in this new life. It’s a Sunday morning, a holy day, so all she has to do is give Alainne her breakfast in bed, help her dress, and then she is off for the rest of the day. But when she walks into the room, Alainne is not sitting in her desk chair, smiling at her. No, instead, Alainne is hidden under the covers, and Clarke can hear the sounds of quiet weeping.

 

“Lady Alainne? Are you alright?” Clarke lays the breakfast tray on a side table and hurries to her soulmate’s side. Through the sheets, she can see Alainne’s shoulders shaking, and she immediately wants to know what has caused this. Clarke has never seen Alainne cry; the brunette is the most optimistic person she’s ever met.

 

And then, something clicks in Clarke’s mind. Alainne had dinner with her parents last night, the Lord and Lady Woodville. They allowed Alainne to come live with her cousin at the castle a year ago, when she turned seventeen, but reside in the surrounding area. From what Clarke has heard, they’re pretty controlling, and she senses that they make Alainne rather nervous. If the dinner last night didn’t go well, her lady has every reason to cry.

 

Alainne sniffles and slides out from under the covers. “I am sorry, Calla. This is most unbecoming of me. It is just—” She hiccups, and if the situation weren’t making her kind of slightly panic, Clarke would chuckle at the delicate noise, so utterly unlike the Lexa she knew. “My parents. They have arranged a marriage for me.”

 

Clarke’s seeing red. Her nails are digging into the palms of her hands, drawing blood. How could anyone do this to their child? It’s barbaric. “To who?” she chokes out.

 

“Lord Devereux. He is old, but he will treat me well, they say,” Alainne mutters, unable to meet Clarke’s eyes. She must know as well as Clarke does: this spells the end of the relationship they’d been so secretly sure they could cultivate. 

 

“When are you to be married?” Clarke grits out, her teeth clenched so hard that her jaw immediately starts to ache.

 

“In two weeks’ time,” Alainne whispers, tears welling in her eyes again.

 

As much as she wishes she could be the good partner and stay there and comfort Alainne, Clarke can’t do it. She can’t bear it. She does her servant-Calla duties, and then she leaves for the day.

 

∞

Two weeks pass by far too quickly. Alainne often seems torn between pulling away and hiding from Clarke so she won’t get too attached, and being completely raw and honest with Clarke, so they can enjoy the time they have left together. Clarke has met Lord Devereux, and she already hates him. He holds Alainne’s arm a little too roughly and says Calla’s name much too brusquely. He is rude, crude, and disgusting, Clarke has decided.

 

The worst part is helping her soulmate prepare for a wedding that doesn’t involve her. Clarke will not be the one standing at the altar; Clarke will not be the one sharing a bed with her. Clarke does not love Alainne in the same way that she loved Lexa — Clarke and Lexa’s love was built on a mutual understanding of the other’s struggles, and Clarke can’t quite relate to Alainne in that same way — but Calla loves her. And since Calla’s soul is, at its essence, the same as Clarke’s, she feels the pain just as deeply as Calla did. But Alainne needs her. She has to be there for her, be strong and convince her lady that life with her soon-to-be husband may not be as bleak as it looks. So Clarke grins and bears it, throughout talk of the wedding attire, throughout avid discussions of the marital feast, even throughout gossip about the dreaded wedding night (as Alainne’s servant, Clarke will have to be there to help her prepare, and will come in afterwards should her lady need anything).

 

The forsaken day arrives. Clarke wakes up with a pounding headache and wants to be miserable, but she can’t be. Alainne needs her. _Lexa_ needs her. So she throws on her clothes, puts her hair in a bun so tight it pulls at her skin, and marches down to Alainne’s room, where the maids of honor and mother are already waiting.

 

Clarke doesn’t get to stop moving for more than five seconds. She arranges flowers, places decorations, and brings food. She plays the part of a servant, because Calla did and Clarke must, so Alainne can be at least a little happy. And when Alainne finally comes out in her wedding attire, it’s all worth it.

 

The white makes her lady glow, the greens of her eyes so vibrant that it hurts. When Alainne looks in the mirror, she smiles, and that’s all Clarke needs. If Alainne is going to marry someone she doesn’t love, she at least deserves to do it feeling beautiful. 

 

Clarke doesn’t get to attend the actual wedding, but from what the other staff tell her, it was beautiful. The preparations for the wedding night are devastatingly simple: dress Alainne in as thin a gown as possible, and put some scented oils in her hair. With shaking hands, Clarke does it all, and finds a dark corner of the hallway to cry in when she leaves Alainne’s chambers, the new ones that she will share with Lord Devereux.

 

Clarke does not see her lady until the next morning. Lord Devereux has been called to an area of the country that is at least three days away by horse, as his father has fallen ill and his mother needs his help. The lord left early in the morning, so Alainne has just woken up when Clarke comes in to clean. She says good morning to her servant, and stretches as she yawns, the sleeve of her nightgown falling down as she does so. Bile rises in Clarke’s throat when she sees the bruises, shaped like fingerprints, scattered across Alainne’s arms. Lord Devereux hurt her last night — that suspicion is confirmed for certain when Clarke changes the bedsheets and sees blood splattered across them. Alainne was a virgin, but it’s still too much.

 

If this were Camp Jaha or Polis, Devereux would have a knife through his throat. But it’s not Camp Jaha, it’s a castle somewhere on Earth, and Clarke feels irritatingly helpless. 

 

“Are you well, Lady Alainne?” Clarke asks, eyes skimming over the marks on the other woman’s arms.

 

“I am fine, Calla,” Alainne responds. Her eyes have darkened at Clarke’s question, and that is how Clarke becomes certain that Alainne did not want these bruises.

 

“You’re not fine, Alainne.” Calla’s body flinches, not wanting to say something so improper, but Clarke’s strong mind wins over.

 

Alainne’s eyes are now so dark that they are more forest green than sea green. They are blank, and for a second, Clarke wonders if Alainne has been replaced with Lexa in _heda_ mode. “Do not trouble yourself with worrying about me,” her lady says calmly. “If I was not fine, I would ask for your help.” 

 

Clarke realizes that this is Alainne shutting down. She must feel truly trapped to act like this, because in this life, Alainne has been remarkably open and honest about her feelings. But people with blue-black bruises marking their skin don’t say they’re okay. Not unless they’re too scared to say otherwise.

 

And because Alainne is so obviously terrified, her denial of her fear making that terror quite clear, Clarke is, too. Now she finally knows: this is how she’s going to lose her soulmate the first time. 

 

∞

Devereux returns after two weeks. His father is not doing well, Alainne tells Clarke, and he will likely leave again soon, though this time, she predicts, it will be for a funeral. 

 

Refreshed by Devereux’s absence, Alainne seems to withstand his presence better this time. Clarke’s fists still clench every time she sees the man, but at least her lady doesn’t have any new bruises when she and her husband dine with Lord and Lady Woodville that night.

 

However, as Clarke clears the table for dessert, she hears interesting talk coming from the Woodvilles. Lord Devereux has retired for the night, claiming a headache. Clarke is glad to have him gone from the room.

 

“Mother, I don’t want that,” Alainne hisses, face flushed. “I’m only eighteen.” 

 

Lord Woodville glares at his daughter. “What you want is not important. What matters is what this family needs to survive, and an heir would do wonderful things for us. It would mean Devereux could never leave you.” Clarke shudders at that line. “To call your husband well-to-do would be an understatement,” Alainne’s father continues. “If you provide him with a son, we will never want for anything again, and you will be looked after and cared for till the end of your days.” 

 

“I am not ready to be a mother,” Alainne says softly, staring down into the bottom of her goblet. From her position at the doorway, Clarke can see the tears spilling down her soulmate’s cheeks. Her chest burns with the desire to run over and give the girl a hug, to wrap her in her arms and take her away from this awful future her parents have planned. 

 

“Darling, that’s what we all say,” Lady Woodville laughs, placing her hand over her daughter’s. Alainne seems to shrink back at her mother’s touch. “When the baby comes, you change your mind quickly,” the woman adds. 

 

Clarke is so focused on her anger that the rest of the dinner passes by quickly. Alainne glances at her over her shoulder as she leaves, and Clarke knows that this means to come to her chambers as soon as possible. She’s never put away the dishes and cutlery so fast.

 

The Devereux chambers are split into two rooms: one meant for the lord and lady to share or for the lord to use alone, and one that the lady can use for herself. This is helpful for nights such as this one, when Lord Devereux has a headache but Lady Alainne doesn’t want to go to bed as early as her husband. It’s also helpful for the times when Clarke and Alainne want to have a private conversation, and that is, Clarke guesses, why Alainne wanted her to come to her room as soon as possible.

 

But when Clarke gets to the Devereux chambers, the candles are all blown out, and it appears that Alainne is asleep in her bed, and Lord Devereux snoozing away in his. Maybe she misread the signal, but it feels a little strange.

Clarke can’t sleep after what she saw at the dinner (who practically _threatens_ their kid into getting pregnant?) so she heads to the kitchen, as Calla’s soul always calls her to do when she’s feeling restless. She has to admit, it is kind of therapeutic, cleaning things and meticulously arranging them to be just right. It’s easier to focus on getting a fork as shiny as possible than it is to focus on your own personal problems.

 

It’s late, probably around two in the morning, when Clarke hears footsteps. The _Skaikru_ in her makes Clarke jump into defensive mode and hold one of the knives she was cleaning out in front of her.As the footsteps get closer, she hurries to light a few extra candles, just so she can see better.

 

Someone pads into the kitchen, and in the glow of the candles, Clarke realizes it’s Alainne.

 

“Lady Alainne, what are you doing up so late?” she scolds, quickly dropping the knife on the table. It lands with a clatter, and Alainne raises an eyebrow (it’s something that Lexa did often, and it makes Clarke’s heart twinge).

 

“Why were you holding a knife like you believed you would be attacked?” her lady counters. Clarke bites her lip, and Alainne laughs. “I would do the same,” she says reassuringly. Then her face grows serious. “Calla, I came here because I have something that I need to share with you. If you tell anyone, we will both be killed.” 

 

“What is it?” Clarke’s mouth is so dry she can barely speak. Something in Calla’s soul is screaming at her to just walk away, like it knows this will be bad, but Clarke knows if she does, she’ll be changing the timeline, and that wouldn’t be good.

 

“I am leaving.”

 

“With Lord Devereux?” Clarke hopes and prays that’s the case.

 

“No. Alone.” Alainne steps closer, and she looks so beautiful right now that, if it wouldn’t be totally inappropriate, Clarke could kiss her. “I am running away, Calla. I cannot be a pawn in my parents’ selfish games any longer. I am not going to bring a child into this world when I do not feel I would be the best mother I could be.” Alainne is so close now that their noses are almost touching. “And I will not stay in a marriage to a man I do not love. Not when I love someone else.”

 

Then they’re kissing, and Clarke knows she’s crying, knows they’re _both_ crying, actually, and it’s so similar to her last kiss with Lexa that it makes her stomach churn. Clarke’s always been good at being able to tell when someone is walking away, and this is Alainne walking away. This is Alainne, leaving for good.

 

But it’s okay. If Alainne is safe, then that’s all that matters. Alainne running away is far better than seeing her die; that would be like losing Lexa all over again, and Clarke doesn’t think she can handle that right now.

 

They finally break apart, and Clarke can taste the saltiness of their tears on her tongue. Alainne smiles, and it’s a beautiful, devastating thing. 

 

“I must go now, Calla. When day breaks, my husband will notice my absence and send guards out to find me. He will come to you, asking questions. All I ask of you is that you not let them harm you.” Alainne’s gaze holds hers with the same commanding authority of Clarke’s commander. “I am not telling you where I plan to go, partly because I do not really know myself, but mostly because that way, you will not be lying when you say that you do not know where I am.”

 

Alainne has a sack over her shoulder, but Clarke still hastily pulls together a bag of cheese, fruit, and bread — the best she can do for now — and insists that the other girl take it. And now, having delayed Alainne’s departure as much as possible, Clarke knows it’s time for them to part.

 

“Be safe,” Clarke calls as Alainne disappears into the dark hallway.

 

She thinks that Alainne didn’t hear her, until, a few moments later, she gets this in reply:

 

“May we meet again.” 

 

Clarke collapses amongst the shiny silverware and weeps.

 

∞

As Alainne had predicted, Lord Devereux is furious about his wife’s unexpected absence, and becomes hell-bent on finding her. It takes longer than Clarke thought it would for the guards to come marching into the kitchen and ask her where her lady is.

 

What neither Alainne nor Clarke could have possibly predicted was how they threw her into the dungeon and ordered her to be tortured.

 

First they try the rack. Clarke screams with every bone they break, every muscle they tear, but still she repeats, “I do not know where my lady is. I do not know where my lady is.” Then they brand her with the Devereux seal, a cruel but clever tactic thought up by the lord himself. Clarke never dreamed she’d one day breathe in the scent of her own burning flesh, but here she is. Finally, they settle for cutting her open and pouring salt in the wounds. They make them shallow enough that it won’t kill her, but deep enough that she can feel the burning to the bone.

 

Her torturer has just made a cut above Clarke’s navel when another guard comes rushing in. They exchange a quick, whispered conversation, and then Clarke is being dragged to the Devereux chambers she knows all too well.

 

And there, slumped against the foot of the bed, is Alainne.

 

Clarke could scream, _would_ scream if she wasn’t already hoarse from her torture. She would let them maim her for all of eternity if it meant Alainne was safe. But Alainne is not safe, Alainne is here, and suddenly, chills go up and down Clarke’s spine.

 

Alainne is going to die.

 

Lord Devereux, kneeling by his wife, catches Clarke’s expression of horror and grins, like a cat who’s caught the canary and ripped its wings off. Then, he reaches down and slaps Alainne awake. 

 

Her first reaction is to spit at her husband, and Clarke somehow finds it in herself to laugh spitefully at the lord. He waves his hand at his guards, and the burlier of the two punches Clarke in the jaw. She just spits the blood in her mouth in his direction, but the punch to the stomach shuts her up.

 

“You are both just common whores,” Lord Devereux snaps, standing up and facing Alainne and Clarke. “Lady Alainne, you are a disgrace to the Woodville name. And Calla, you are nothing more than a useless servant. Funny, that such complete opposites would attract — though you do have one trait in common. You are both utterly and helplessly stupid.” Devereux chuckles lowly. “You think I didn’t know what was going on? The glances, the kindness that a lady should never show to her servant? I may not be the most attractive man, but I am intelligent.”

 

Lord Devereux turns to Alainne, and he looks almost hurt for a moment as he snarls, “And _you_. You _ran away from me_. You were like a child who decided she didn’t want to play with her toy anymore and abandoned it.” A cold smile creeps across his features. “Well, we will not be playing games any longer. I have decided upon a proper punishment for the both of you.”

 

Devereux strides over to Clarke and crouches down, grasping her chin in his hand so roughly that she already feels the bruise forming. “ _I_ am going to slit the throat of your beloved _lady_ , and _you_ are going to watch her die,” he hisses. “Then, you will die, cold and alone, broken and battered, knowing that there is no one left on this Earth who loves you or cares for you.” 

 

Clarke is shaking, even though it hurts _so much_ with all of her wounds. “Please,” she begs, looking into Devereux’s eyes and searching for some semblance of humanity. She does not find any. 

 

“Please don’t do this!” Clarke shrieks, adrenaline and fear giving her back the ability to scream, as Devereux advances towards Alainne, sword drawn.

 

“It will be alright, Calla,” Alainne whispers. Devereux jerks her head back, exposing the smooth expanse of her neck. Clarke can barely see, she’s crying so hard.

 

“I love you,” her lady mouths.

 

Metal screeches against bone, and Clarke cannot look, because if she looks and sees the empty eyes of her dead soulmate, she will break in two. There’s blood spattered across the front of her clothing, and she is trembling, sobbing so hard that she begins to dry-heave.

 

Footsteps approach. Devereux tips her head back so Clarke’s eyes meet his. All she sees is coldness. She knows all he’ll see is fear. 

 

But fear is real. Fear makes her human. And as Devereux’s sword plunges into her chest and hits its mark, Clarke isn’t scared anymore. Because Calla’s soul knows she will find Alainne again. And Clarke knows that she will find Lexa again, in another world, in another lifetime.

 

And so, as she takes her last breath, there is no fear. Only the promise of love. 

 

She dies smiling. 


	3. three

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First of all, thank you to Mistressofmyownactions for giving me the idea to mention an age difference for Clarke and Lexa in one of their lifetimes. I'd never thought of that, but I wanted to throw that in here after she mentioned that, because I feel like that could have ended up being a bit of a plot hole.
> 
> Thank you for all your support and for reading this story. I apologize that this chapter is so late; school has really been kicking my butt lately. But you guys have been so patient, so thank you!!
> 
> I hope you enjoy. Thank you for reading.
> 
> xo,  
> L

_three._

They don’t meet in every timeline, Clarke discovers, and there are some lifetimes where their meetings simply never progress into love. Their meeting is especially strange during the early beginnings of the Age of Exploration, where Clarke is reincarnated as a brave merchant’s daughter who wants to be the first female explorer for England, and Lexa shows up as the happily married fifty-year-old next door. _That_ was a strange timeline, Clarke has to say. She ended up meeting a nice man named Benjamin and having a daughter with him, though she died shortly after due to complications from childbirth. Truthfully, Clarke was grateful to get out of that timeline; the world did not seem as colorful when her soul knew what a life with Lexa felt like.

 

After dying at age fifteen in an unfortunate mishap with a horse, Clarke finds herself in a new timeline, this one far more exciting than any of the last few. It’s during the peak of the Renaissance, and her name is Catherine. She lives in a tiny village in Italy with her father, who paints portraits for the richer families around town. It’s a quiet life, but a nice one, and as Catherine, Clarke finally discovers the origin of her talent with drawing: Catherine is the first of her reincarnations that she’s known to be artistic, and since childhood, she’s restless without a paintbrush or charcoal in her hand. She spends countless afternoons sketching or with an easel in the sunlit room her father reserved strictly for her in their little stucco house. 

 

When Catherine finally meets the love of her life, she is seventeen years old. It is February, and a noble family comes to their house to pay for the commission of a portrait of their daughter, in celebration of her eighteenth birthday. Shortly after the payment is made, however, Catherine’s father falls ill. Clarke worries; she skimmed through her mother’s medical textbooks plenty of times as a child, and she remembers reading about consumption. She thinks that this is what is making Catherine’s father so sick.

 

He cannot paint the portrait. So Clarke volunteers. Catherine’s father does not like the idea at first, but when his daughter reminds him of their current financial state, he reluctantly agrees to it. The noble daughter will meet with Clarke for four sessions of painting, possibly more if the portrait requires it.

 

Their first meeting occurs during the first week of March. Clarke has arranged for them to meet in the town square, because she knows if her client sees the blood around her father’s mouth when he coughs, she will no longer have a portrait to paint. Clarke also knows they cannot afford that.

 

The square is bustling with people, some rich, some poor, some a happy in-between. The colors of this world seem less washed-out than the lives Clarke has experienced after Alainne, and she smiles, a little something in her soul telling her that she will be meeting Lexa again, very, _very_ soon. She’s been carrying this knowledge with her since she woke up as Catherine, and it’s what carries her through her toughest days, the mornings where she wakes up before dawn to make sure her father hasn’t died during the night, and the nights where she stays up late by his side, pressing damp cloths to his forehead and wiping away the blood. Clarke does it for two reasons: So she can meet Lexa again, and also because it’s what Catherine’s soul calls her to do. This man is Catherine’s father, and so, in a sense, Clarke’s father as well — even if he doesn’t look anything like the father she grew up with.

 

Clarke has been waiting on a bench in the middle of the square for only five minutes when there’s a tap on her shoulder. She’s surprised; she’s never known a noble client to be this punctual. It warms her heart a little bit, to know that this family must respect her time as she would respect theirs. Clarke looks up, a smile on her face to greet her client with — but then her stomach drops and her eyes automatically fill with tears as she registers that familiar feeling, the one she hasn’t experienced in so long. 

 

There she is. Lexa — albeit dressed in a burnt-orange and gold dress, but still, Lexa all the same. Clarke wonders what her soulmate will be called this time around, but she doesn’t have to wait long for her answer. “Livia Visconti,” the other woman says, curtsying elegantly and shaking Clarke’s hand. 

 

“It is a pleasure to meet you,” Clarke replies faintly.

 

“The same to you,” Livia says, smiling warmly. 

 

“Please, have a seat.” Clarke gets up and allows Livia to sit, but the noblewoman only takes up a small amount of space, making sure to leave room for the painter.

 

“You should sit as well,” Livia insists. Clarke doesn’t protest; she’s still a little heady from the rush she’s gotten from finding love again. _It’s been too long,_ she thinks.

 

They just chat for a while, discussing what Livia wants from the portrait and how she wants to look in it. Livia decides that she’d like to have the portrait done in her family’s garden by the river; she claims that no one will bother them there, so Clarke can paint away in silence. It’s a sweet thought, and Clarke’s heart flutters, her mind still struggling to comprehend that she’s been lucky enough to find her soulmate again.

 

Their first session goes well. Livia is a rarity, the only person Clarke has ever met in this lifetime who can sit still for so long without complaining. She looks beautiful in the sunlight, wearing a navy dress that brings out her eyes, her smile so bright and wide that Clarke’s sure this can’t possibly be a girl whose soul has experienced such horrible things in the past. Livia is a work of art in her own right, and Clarke tries her hardest to capture that as she paints.

 

After two hours of non-stop painting, Clarke needs a break. She gingerly stumbles to her feet, thighs cramping as she moves, and Livia does the same, following her as Clarke walks over to the river. The cool water tempts her, and Clarke can’t help but dip her fingers in, letting out a sigh of relief and wishing she could just take everything off and dive in — the Italian summer heat is oppressive, though she’s used to it, being one of the 100 who came to an irradiated Earth in leather jackets and long pants (how stupid was that?). 

 

“It is a beautiful day,” Livia comments. The brunette is standing right behind Clarke, and she shivers when she feels her soulmate’s breath on the back of her neck.

 

“Yes,” Clarke agrees. “Too hot, though. I would do anything for a swim.” 

 

“Then let’s swim,” Livia says. Before Clarke can respond, Livia’s gown and corset come off, the girl’s fingers flying to undo the laces of her many layers of clothing. Within a minute, Livia’s only clad in her underclothes and stands there, grinning in the afternoon sunlight.

 

“My God,” Clarke breathes. The smug look on Livia’s face sends her into uncontrollable laughter, the kind where she throws her head back and just _giggles_ non-stop. She probably sounds disgusting — Clarke has the tendency to snort when she laughs hard enough, and Catherine has the same trait — but Livia is so non-judgmental, so wholly accepting, that Clarke can’t find it in herself to care. 

 

Clarke’s clothes come off quickly, too, though Livia has to help her a bit with her corset — apparently, Livia’s had a lot of practice with this quick-strip-and-swim thing. It’s something that a Renaissance noblewoman would never do, and Clarke has to wonder how the girl developed the habit. She doesn’t ask, though, fearful that she might offend her client (because yes, even if she’s insanely attracted to Livia, she’s still her _client_ ), and Clarke watches as Livia wades into the water. The brunette bobs along happily, droplets glistening on her skin, which isn’t quite as tan as Lexa’s, but is still rather dark for someone of her social status. _Her parents must hate that_ , Clarke thinks to herself. Being pale is all the rage in this timeline, at least for a noblewoman.

 

“Come in,” Livia calls. She looks like a mermaid, all green eyes, glowing cheeks, and long hair that is almost black in the water. The siren song of her soulmate’s laughter calls to Clarke’s heart, and there is no greater temptation on this planet than Livia’s voice right now.

 

Clarke can’t resist. She joins Livia, carefully shimmying into the cool, clear blue of the river. It’s so refreshing, a welcome relief from the thick summer heat, and Clarke’s immediate reaction is to let out a loud cheer. A blush spreads across her cheeks as Livia eyes her curiously, and she realizes that was not Catherine whooping — it was pure Clarke. _Must be the Arkadian in me_ , she thinks wryly.

 

But Livia’s not judging her, Clarke realizes as a grin settles on the other girl’s face. She’s just fascinated; maybe she’s never known freedom like Clarke has, the ability to yell when you’re happy and not care who criticizes you for it or if it’s wrong or right. She’s a little sad for her, actually. That kind of life isn’t an enjoyable one — Clarke has always believed this, but after some of the lifetimes she’s re-experienced since Titus gave her that potion, now she _knows_ it’s true. 

 

Suddenly, warm fingers thread through Clarke’s, and she looks over at Livia in surprise as their hands intertwine. With a shy smile, Livia raises their joined hands and lets out a surprisingly fierce whoop of her own. There’s a faint pang of sadness in Clarke’s chest, as her soulmate’s shout calls to mind many a memory of Lexa’s battle cries, so strong, so brave. Two things Clarke could never be. People like Bellamy and her mother can call her brave all they want, but Clarke knows that on the inside, she’s really just a coward. A brave girl wouldn’t abandon her duties to cry in her room for a month. A brave girl would plaster a smile on her face and pretend that her mind wasn’t filled with images of bullets and warpaint. Clarke will readily admit she was weak and cowardly, but the only time it ever truly bothers her is when she asks herself if Lexa would be disappointed in her. But Clarke decided long ago that she doesn’t want to know the answer to that question.

 

Here, though, in the warm summer sunshine, in the cool river water, staring into the eyes of the girl she’s loved for so many centuries already — Clarke’s happy she was a coward. Because if she hadn’t been a coward and only left Camp Jaha to visit Polis, she never would have met Titus in the woods and received the potion that has already changed her so much. And Clarke would remain a coward for a million lifetimes if it meant she could experience this moment all over again.

 

∞

The life of Livia Antonia Visconti is not as easy as her family’s wealth would lead you to believe — that is something Clarke has learned over these past few weeks she’s spent with her client. The Viscontis are cold people; Livia is the only source of warmth in her family, her older brother and parents more marble than human. Clarke has met Livia’s mother once — her name started with an L as well, Lucia, perhaps — and was instantly terrified. She came in with her husband to commission the portrait, but did not say a single kind word to Clarke or Catherine’s father. Mr. Visconti was slightly friendlier, flashing a brief smile at Clarke when they entered the room and waving goodbye when they left.

 

Clarke has only ever heard of Livia’s brother. His name is Giovanni, and at twenty, he’s two years older than his sister. According to Livia, he’s a total mama’s boy, and always does exactly what the overpowering matriarch asks. He still lives with his family, but is engaged to another local noble girl andwill take over the family riches when Mr. Visconti dies.

 

There’s something strange and dark about Giovanni, though — and Clarke only knows this because of Livia’s reaction when asked if she’s close with her brother. Bottle green eyes flashed dark emerald, and the brunette’s smile had disappeared entirely. Her only response was a small shake of her head as the girl seemed to shrink in on herself.

 

This was not the Livia that Clarke believed she knew. This was raw, vulnerable, _scared_ Livia. And Clarke didn’t like that at all. She made a promise to herself that very moment: if Giovanni ever hurt Livia, Clarke wouldhunt him down and kill him with her own two hands.

 

It’s a flash of _Wanheda_ in a world meant for a gentle artist, and it terrifies Catherine’s soul. 

 

Clarke’s soul doesn’t mind it at all.

 

∞

The portrait is finished far too soon. When Clarke looks at it, the artist in her is proud, but the lover in her is devastated. Livia promises to still visit, but Clarke now knows the Visconti way. Even if Livia tries her hardest, there is no guarantee they will ever meet again. 

 

Livia’s parents come by to collect the portrait the day after it is finished. When Clarke mentions how kind Livia was to her, Mrs. Visconti only bares her teeth in a poor excuse for a smile and murmurs how nice that was. Coldness is in her eyes, and shock is evident on the face of her husband. _I am going to regret this_ , Clarke realizes.

 

Two weeks go by. No word from Livia.

 

After a month, it is evident that her soulmate has abandoned her. And then, two months after the Viscontis come to collect the portrait, Catherine’s father dies. Catherine’s soul aches, and even Clarke is wounded by the loss. She’s grown fond of the man in the time she’s spent with him, and now it hits her that she is truly, totally alone.

 

Clarke prays for her death to come soon. This lifetime is far more painful than she’d expected.

 

 

∞

The first sign that something is wrong is when Clarke coughs and finds drops of blood on her hand. Catherine’s soul winces at the sight, and Clarke instantly knows that this is the beginning of her undoing. She knows what this is; Catherine’s father died of consumption, known as tuberculosis in Clarke’s time, and it is contagious. She spent a lot of time caring for him; it makes sense that she would contract it, too.

 

In the back of her mind, she’s worried about Livia, but decides that three weeks painting a portrait is not enough time to give someone tuberculosis. They were never in particularly close quarters, and the outside air surely helped.

 

She’s lying to herself. She knows it. But perhaps Livia will be lucky.

 

∞

A month and three weeks after Catherine’s father’s death, Clarke is washing the blood from her hands when there is a knock on the door. She has grown so used to loneliness that she doesn’t allow her heart to hope, not even for a second. Livia has not come, and Livia will not come. She will die alone in this lifetime.

 

Pain blooming in her chest as she coughs again, Clarke slowly walks to the door. She’s weaker now; death will come soon for her. Clarke is debating whether she should write a last will and testament when she opens the door.

 

_Oh._ It’s Livia standing there, beautiful as ever, practically glowing in a crimson dress. It would take Clarke’s breath away if the tuberculosis hadn’t already done that for her.

 

She’s furious, frightened, and overjoyed all at once. Angry that Livia probably heard about Catherine’s father’s death, but never even sent a letter of condolence. Happy to see that her soulmate looks healthy as ever. Terrified that Livia’s come to tell her that’s not the case.

 

“Come in,” Clarke manages to choke out, Catherine’s soul so unbearably polite. Livia gives her a small smile and walks in, watching with concerned eyes as Clarke’s trembling hands close the door and lock it.

 

“Are you not well, Catherine?” Livia asks, worry tinging her voice. “You are shaking.”

 

“You shouldn’t be here,” Clarke hisses. It’s so very fitting of her own personality that she’s surprised that sweet, sensitive Catherine could be so rude. 

Hurt is written all over Livia’s features, but she remains calm as always. “Yet here I am,” she says lightly. “I have so much to tell you, but could we please sit? You are not looking well, and it is a long walk from my house to yours.” 

 

Reluctantly, Clarke leads her soulmate to the kitchen table. Livia seems to take note of every detail of their surroundings, and it breaks Clarke’s heart that the girl is so obviously trying to make sure that she’s taking care of herself. They sit across from each other, and Clarke’s heart is in her throat as Livia gazes at her with a stare so intense, it could stop an army. _It will, generations from now,_ Clarke promises silently.

 

“You didn’t come,” Clarke says flatly. Livia flinches; she’s so quickly addressed the elephant in the room. “Three months, and you never came. You _promised_ , Livia. What happened to that?”

 

Livia looks at the floor. “I tried,” she says quietly, voice cracking. “I tried to get out of the house, but my parents would not let me go to see you. They claimed that you had impure intentions and that you would… _tarnish_ my reputation. Of course I did not care about something as trivial as that, but to my parents and Giovanni, it was all too important. I have been on house arrest, essentially, since they received the portrait.” 

 

Clarke’s heart is cracking in two. All this time, she’s been so angry with Livia. All this time, she’s been praying for death to come, and now that it has her in its grasp, she’s just finding out that Livia was trying to get to her all along. _Life is too unfair_ , she thinks, tears beading in the corners of her eyes.

 

Absent-mindedly, Clarke covers Livia’s hand with hers. The other girl’s eyes widen at the gesture, but she doesn’t pull away. “How did you get here today?” Clarke asks.

 

“My father and Giovanni have traveled to Venice for some business matters, and my mother has gone to a friend’s wedding in a village a few hours away,” Livia explains. “I was meant to go with her, but I pretended that I did not feel well. She trusts me now; she thinks I have been away from you long enough that I have forgotten all about you.” Livia laughs bitterly. 

 

“Would you?” Clarke murmurs. Livia raises a brow, and Clarke clarifies, “Forget about me. If you could.”

 

Livia stares at her like she’s suggested they murder the king. “How could I ever forget about you, Catherine? You have changed my life,” she says fiercely. “I was alone before I met you. My brother and my parents pretend to care about me, but they really only care about their money and their reputations. It does not matter to them if I am happy. You are the first person I have met who genuinely cares about my happiness, and that is _invaluable_ to me.” 

 

Clarke’s not sure if the deep ache in her chest is from Livia’s words or the tuberculosis, but it is there, a throbbing reminder of her love and how it will end all too soon. And Clarke can’t accept that. She can’t die without knowing what it feels like to hold Livia in her arms or kiss her. She hasn’t kissed her soulmate since Alainne, and she misses it so much. 

 

Before she can stop herself, Clarke’s lips are on Livia’s. The noblewoman doesn’t even act shocked or surprised; she simply seems to melt into the kiss, tangling a hand in Clarke’s hair. She tastes like strawberries, and Clarke chuckles to herself, remembering Livia telling her that strawberries were her favorite fruit.

 

They break apart all too soon, but they have to — they’re in an awkward half-standing, half-sitting position, and Clarke’s knees are already buckling slightly. It’s a cruel reminder of what the tuberculosis has done to her.

 

And then she remembers. She’s contagious.

 

“We shouldn’t have done that,”Clarke breathes, wide-eyed and frantic. 

 

“Why not?” Livia looks confused. “We both care for each other, do we not?”

 

“Well, yes, but—” Clarke swallows hard. “I’m contagious, Livia. I am sick with consumption. My father died from it, he gave it to me, and I will die soon, just like him.”

 

Livia is the palest she’s ever been. “ _No_ , Catherine. I will not accept that. We can find a doctor, a good doctor, he could help you get better—”

 

“This is not something I can recover from, Livia,” Clarke says gently, using her thumb to rub soothing circles into the back of her soulmate’s hand. “It’s fatal. I’m going to die. And you should leave, now, before I get you sick. I may have already done that. I’m sorry.”

 

Livia is silent. Then Clarke coughs, and blood sprays across her arm. Livia jumps back, looking frightened, but immediately stands up and starts searching for something to wipe up the mess. Clarke stumbles to her feet. “Stop, Livia,” she grits out. Everything hurts, and suddenly, her head is spinning. Her soulmate can’t see her like this. “Please go home. I don’t want you to see me like this.”

 

Livia looks ready to resist, but the sheer desperation in Clarke’s eyes softens her, and she relents. “Fine. I will return home for today. But I will be back, Catherine. I will help you get well, or we will die together,” she says stubbornly.

 

When the door swings shut behind Livia, Clarke crawls into bed and cries herself to sleep.

 

∞

Livia keeps her promise this time. She comes back, at least once a week; her mother believes that she is visiting an old childhood friend who has just moved back into the area with a new husband. They talk, sharing secrets and memories until dusk falls, and Livia has to go back home. 

 

As the weeks go by, Clarke worsens. Three months after Catherine’s father’s death, she develops a fever that will not go away. Livia still insists on coming, and spends her days pressing cool cloths to Clarke’s forehead. She tries to convince Clarke to let her hire a doctor to bleed out the illness, but Clarke refuses. She doesn’t want Livia to get in trouble with her parents over her.

 

A week after the fever develops, Livia is sitting by her side and holding her hand when the brunette coughs. And Clarke sees the bright scarlet drops that dot her lover’s skin.

 

She brings it up every time the girl visits. “You’re sick, Livia. Stay home. I’ll only make you worse.” But still her soulmate comes, and her illness is progressing much more quickly than Clarke’s. She’s almost as bad as Clarke within two weeks, when Clarke’s fever breaks.

 

They celebrate, but Livia looks pale and tired.

 

And then she doesn’t come the next day. Or the day after that. When a week has gone by and Livia has not appeared on Clarke’s doorstep, she knows what has happened. The sharp stab of pain in Catherine’s soul confirms this.

 

Clarke is getting worse again, and when she wakes up on the eighth day since Livia’s last visit, something in her tells her that this is the day. But she has to go to the Visconti house. She must be sure what has happened to her soulmate.

 

She uses the last dregs of her energy to drag herself to the large villa; she’s never been before, but Livia told her a while ago where it was. Every bone in Clarke’s body aches as she knocks on the door, chest so tight she can barely breathe.

 

Livia’s mother answers the door, and her eyes immediately narrow in a hateful glare. “You dare to show yourself on the day of my daughter’s funeral?” she snarls. “ _You_ contaminated her, you hateful wench! You gave her this sickness, and she is _dead_ because of you.”

 

Clarke’s heart is shattering. “Please, just let me see her,” she begs. “Let me see her one last time.”

 

The door slams shut in her face. It seems to set off a chain reaction in Clarke’s body: her ears begin to ring, her chest is on fire with pain, and she can no longer breathe. She’s gasping for air, but it’s not coming. She tries to make it down the steps, but trips and falls.

 

Clarke stares up at the blue, blue sky, wishing that Livia was here, wishing that she wasn’t the reason her soulmate was dead. She doesn’t know how long she will have to wait to meet her love again, and that thought kills her. How many lifetimes will she be forced to suffer through before she can be happy? 

 

Blackness closes in. Fitting, that she would die on the Viscontis’ steps, she thinks to herself.

 

Clarke dies crying. 


	4. four

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another update! I know, I'm just as surprised as you are. Inspiration hit, but I'm exhausted from exams so it may not be one of my best. Sorry, guys. 
> 
> Please don't hate me for this ending. They will get a happy ending! I promise!
> 
> Thank you for reading. I love you all!
> 
> Xo L

_four._

Ages pass, more lifetimes spent without Lexa by her side. In fact, they’ve barely met at all since they were Livia and Catherine. Clarke has to wonder if maybe Lexa’s soul is purposely avoiding her. Maybe it’s not sure if it can endure another heartbreak. Clarke wouldn’t blame it if that were true; losing Livia had been enough to nearly crack her in half.

 

Other people from her life as Clarke begin to pop up in different timelines. The first time she sees Octavia, going by Ophelia in this life, she starts to laugh so hard that the other girl worries for her sanity. Raven first meets Clarke’s soul as a cook’s assistant for Anne Boleyn; the future mechanic has the God-given name of Rose, but insists on going by “Ro”. It makes Clarke smile; Raven seems to always be a tomboy, a rule breaker, no matter what era she lives in or what name she’s born with. She is a little more polite in her older reincarnations, however. Clarke wonders who _her_ soulmate is; she hopes to God it isn’t Finn.

 

The first time _she_ encounters the dark-haired boy is during the Elizabethan era. Clarke goes by Cybil, and she is a lady-in-waiting for Queen Elizabeth I. When she meets Finn’s reincarnation, she is startled to learn that he goes by the same name. Maybe Finn is just a name that can be used in every time period, but it still disconcerts her, and Clarke quickly excuses herself to go cry in her chambers for a good half hour.

 

Finn and Clarke meet when they are fifteen. By sixteen, they are close friends. By seventeen, they are best friends, and their parents have announced their betrothal. At eighteen, they are wed.

 

It’s a marriage of convenience, really. Clarke and Finn are very close, probably closer than most couples at court, but they’re not in love.It’s okay. They both know it, and they’ve both told each other this multiple times. Finn’s family is far richer than Clarke’s, which is in debt after one of her father’s various business experiments went awry and left them owing a great deal of money to their investors.It’s for the good of their families. They’re not expected to have children for at least another year or so, but Clarke is comfortable enough with her husband that she knows when the time comes, it won’t be a terrible experience. And it’s not like they try to make each other miserable — Clarke has given Finn permission to see other people and told him they have an open marriage, but he won’t do it, claiming that he’d never want to dishonor his wife.

 

Alice Wycliffe comes to court a week before Clarke’s (Cybil’s) nineteenth birthday. The queen seems to be excited about the new arrival; the Wycliffes are old friends, she says, and oh, Cybil, you’ll just _love_ Alice, she has the _kindest_ soul. Clarke doesn’t think twice about it; she tries to ignore the tugging in Cybil’s soul. Alice is a very un-Lexa-like name, after all, it couldn’t possibly be her. And even if Alice were one of Lexa’s reincarnations, Clarke is already married, and even if she doesn't love Finn, she would never break her marriage vows. Alice is probably already married anyway, she reassures herself. After all, most girls have husbands by twenty in this world. (She ignores the fact that the queen has never once mentioned a suitor, fiancé, or husband for Alice.)

 

The day of Alice’s arrival comes far too quickly. Clarke is up before dawn, so nervous that she can barely lace her corset and has to force Finn to help her dress. The sky is beautiful this morning, the sunrise an intense mixture of pinks and golds, but Clarke can’t admire it. She has too much to lose and too much to worry about.

 

The queen needs Clark’s help to look her best for the arrival of the Wycliffe clan, so at least she has that to distract her. Before she knows it, she’s standing on the sidelines of the throne room, listening to the trumpets blaring that announce the Wycliffes’ entrance. It seems a bit much for only two people, in Clarke’s opinion; Alice’s parents had business to attend to at home, so her uncle volunteered to accompany her to the castle. Trumpets for only two Wycliffes? Again, overkill in Clarke’s mind.

 

The uncle, John Wycliffe, is the first to enter. He sports a proud grin and a devilish glint in his eyes that reminds Clarke far too much of Murphy, and memories of her fellow Arkadian flash through her mind as Wycliffe bows before the throne, rapier gleaming from its sheath on his waist. “Your Highness, it would be my honor to present my fair niece to you, Lady Alice Wycliffe,” he crows. Clarke has to resist the urge to roll her eyes; Wycliffe is obviously quite full of himself.

 

As the more feminine Wycliffe enters the room, her features are initially difficult to make out. Her head is bowed, eyes lowered to the floor as she approaches the throne. Queen Elizabeth is clearly pleased with this humble display; a small smile has settled on her pale features. Clarke forgets her manners for a moment and cranes her neck to get a second look at Alice, pulse racing with the desire to know if this girl will be trouble. “It is a pleasure to meet you, Lady Wycliffe,” the queen says lightly.

 

Alice raises her head, meeting the queen’s eyes, and Clarke’s heart thumps against her ribcage as she recognizes the all-too-familiar face. High cheekbones offset vibrant green eyes and long brown curls, pillowy lips curved into a gentle grin. That same low, elegant voice responds smoothly, “The pleasure is all mine, your highness. I am most excited to become a member of your court, and I cannot wait to see what London has to offer.”

 

Queen Elizabeth is delighted with Alice’s reply — she respects people with good manners, but sincere people above all, and Alice is nothing but sincere — but the queen hides it well, only allowing her grin to broaden for a moment before her face resumes its normal stoic expression. “You will be of great help to this court, Lady Alice,” she declares. “A welcome dance is being held in your honor tonight, as you already know. I will see you there, and your official duties begin tomorrow.”

 

The queen turns to Clarke. “Lady Cybil, you are to help Lady Alice during her first few weeks at court. Guide her and take her under your wing, as others did for you,” she instructs. Clarke’s blood is running cold in her veins, but she manages a slight nod. Elizabeth looks pleased. “It is settled, then,” she says. “Welcome to court, Lady Alice Wycliffe.” 

 

∞

Clarke tries to avoid Alice, she really does. Despite the strange mixture of relief and disappointment that she’s battling, she does her duties as best she can after Alice’s arrival and then retires to her chambers, claiming a headache. She knows Elizabeth won’t mind; she has plenty of other ladies-in-waiting, and if Clarke’s really needed, then she’ll be called for. The strategy works; she gets three hours of undisturbed peace, and even a short nap, before there’s a knock on the door.

 

“You may enter,” Clarke calls out, hand still draped over her eyes. She’s still exhausted, even after her nap. Seeing Alice makes her weary, right down to her very soul, because Clarke’s _scared_ , if she’s being completely honest. Loving this much and losing so much has made her so tired, and she’s only lost Lexa three times so far. Losing her again might just kill her. Why can’t it be different? Why can’t Clarke be the one to die first, or can’t Lexa just fucking _move away_ or fall out of love with her? Waving goodbye would be so much easier than watching her soulmate die, over and over again, and Clarke’s terrified to hope that this timeline or any of the ones after it could be any different. _Hope died with Lexa_ , she reminds herself.

 

She expected Finn to walk in, but the figure standing next to her bed smells like jasmine, so unless her husband has decided to start wearing perfume, it must be one of her fellow ladies-in-waiting next to her. Realizing how improper she must look, Clarke hastily sits up and tries to arrange her skirts so they don’t look quite so wrinkled. “I apologize,” she murmurs, eyes focused on the awful mess that is her dress as her fingers try to fix it. “I am still waking up. Does the queen need something?”

 

It’s only when she looks up that she discovers it’s not just any lady-in-waiting by her side; it’s Alice. “This must be my punishment for napping on the job,” Clarke mutters under her breath.

 

“Sorry, Lady Cavell,” Alice says, “did you say something?” Clarke groans internally; she hates it when people call her Lady Cavell. Cavell is Finn’s last name in this timeline, and she personally despises how it sounds with her current name, Cybil.

 

“It was just a yawn,” Clarke replies quickly, not wanting to give Alice a negative first impression. Cybil’s soul seems to be very resistant to Alice’s presence; she’s obviously attracted to the Wycliffe girl, but something in Cybil desperately wants to deny it. Perhaps it’s because she knows how rumors fly at Elizabethan court. Cybil is like the meaning of her name (wise) for that, Clarke thinks. If people saw Alice and Cybil becoming too close, they would be quick to spread malicious gossip that could ruin Cybil’s marriage and destroy Alice’s chances of ever finding a husband.

 

Alice nods. “Understandable. I am feeling quite exhausted myself,” she says coolly. She’s obviously seen through Clarke’s lie and already doesn’t like her. 

 

“You must have had quite the long journey,” Clarke agrees. 

 

“Yes. Quite.” Alice’s arms are clasped behind her back; she’s assumed the familiar _heda_ pose that Clarke knows all too well from her time with Lexa. “The queen sent me to tell you that it is time for you to start getting ready for tonight’s dinner,” Alice continues. Clarke notes that her soulmate is already dressed in elaborate evening wear. How long has she been out? “Lady Mary and Lady Clare are helping her dress, so all you need to do is dress yourself,” Alice finishes. 

 

“Is that all?” Clarke asks, not meeting Alice’s eyes.

 

“Yes.”

 

“Then — and I beg you not to take this as impolite — I would kindly request that you leave,” Clarke says smoothly. “I would hate to give you an improper view of myself when we have only just met.” It comes off a little more brusquely than Clarke intended, and she’s about to regret that when something flashes in Alice’s eyes. Clarke knows that look; the girl is amused. 

 

“Of course, Lady Cavell—”

 

Clarke cuts her off. “Please, call me Cybil. I feel rather uncomfortable when someone of my own age calls me Lady Cavell.” She tries to be formal and firm about it, but it only makes Alice chuckle as she moves to the doorway.

 

“Forgive me, Lady Cybil,” the brunette says with a raised brow. “I will see you in an hour’s time. Until then.” The door closes softly behind her, and Clarke lets out a long sigh. Tonight is going to be exhausting.

 

∞

 

The night is a blur of dancing, loud music, and the queen’s failed attempts to hide her quiet chuckles. This is partly because of the near gallon of malmsey Clarke’s downed in the past two hours. Normally, she’d be embarrassed at depending on alcohol like this, but the wine is a necessary evil, a requirement to distract her from the way Alice twirls and smiles on the dance floor. The heady rush in her veins dulls the little twinge in her heart that Clarke gets every time a sleazy duke or lord approaches her soulmate for a dance.

 

Just two and a half hours into the dance, Clarke has consumed enough wine that she knows she’s reached the point of no return. Any more alcohol, and she’ll be drunk enough to act improperly, which would only serve to anger Elizabeth and potentially get Clarke accused of being unfaithful to her husband. She can be a rather flirty drunk. Finn notices the glazed look in Clarke’s eyes around the same time she comes to this conclusion, and she’s never been so thankful to have him as her husband as she is when he puts an arm around her shoulder, excuses them for the night, and quickly whisks her away to their chambers.

 

Clarke immediately flops onto the bed in a most unladylike manner, and it makes Cybil’s soul cringe. “Are you not well, Cybil?” Finn questions. “You consumed a fair amount of malmsey.” 

 

“I was simply trying to enjoy myself, Finn,” Clarke snorts. “Forgive me.” 

 

“Don’t act so offended.” Finn shakes his head, pretending to be irritated, but Clarke can see the smile on his face and knows he thinks it’s funny. 

 

“Help me undress?” Clarke begs. Her corset is so tight that she can barely breathe, and tomorrow morning will be hell if she wakes up hungover _and_ still fully dressed.

 

“Of course.” Finn helps her up and begins to unlace her stays, and Clarke lets out a breath of relief as she feels her chest expand to its normal size again. 

 

“Thank you,” she murmurs. Finn simply nods from behind her, where he’s still trying to slip her clothes off so she can change into her nightgown. Undressing is just as arduous a process for Elizabethan women as dressing is, however, so it’s going to take a while. 

 

“So,” Finn begins, “the Wycliffe girl.”

 

Clarke stiffens, and then forces herself to relax, hoping that Finn didn’t notice her reaction and decide it to be suspicious. “Lady Alice? What of her?” 

 

“The queen seems to be rather enamored with her,” Finn says, tossing Clarke’s corset on a nearby chair. “Do you have any idea as to why?”

 

“None whatsoever,” Clarke answers, watching in the mirror as Finn slips her sleeves off. “Before Lady Alice’s arrival, all the queen said was that she was a kind girl, and that the Wycliffes were old friends.” 

 

“Ah. Perhaps that’s why.” 

 

“Perhaps. Why do you ask?” Clarke’s chest feels tight again, but it’s from anxiety this time, not a corset.

 

Finn shrugs. “I was simply curious, Cybil. All I know is that Lady Wycliffe attracted quite the amount of suitors tonight, and the Queen appears to adore her, and, well, as we both know… That can be a _very_ dangerous combination at court,” he says.

 

Clarke shudders, recalling the stories of Henry VIII and his wives. Yes, everyone seemed to love _them_ until someone wanted a little more power or a little more money, and then it was off to the chopping block for the poor woman. Finn’s trying to tell her to look out for Alice, she realizes. He probably feels sorry for her; it is quite apparent that she has a good heart (or at least, her display with the queen this morning made that appear to be so), and that’s a rarity around here. The queen deserves to have at least one or two genuine attendants, but a girl like Alice won’t last a minute at court if someone doesn’t look after her and tell her what to do.

 

Clarke is genuine. Clarke means well. Clarke knows all the wicked ways of Queen Elizabeth’s court. The pieces come together in her mind. _Oh._ Those reasons are exactly why the queen instructed her to take Alice under her wing.

 

And now, Clarke thinks as she climbs into bed, she must, or watch her soulmate die before her eyes a third time. 

 

∞

If Clarke thought Cybil’s soul was stubborn before, it is even more stubborn now, as she tries to mentor Alice the best she can while keeping their relationship as platonic as possible. Cybil’s soul screams at her, hisses at her every time she walks into Alice’s chambers or even speaks to the Wycliffe girl, even though Clarke knows she hasn’t changed the events at all in this timeline. Cybil is probably just trying to avoid more pain, but Clarke gets the sense that Cybil’s also embarrassed with herself for falling in love with Alice. Cybil seems to be quite the proud and proper woman.

 

Still, despite Clarke’s best efforts, she grows close to Alice. The queen teases that they have become the “best of friends,” and she’s not far off there. Clarke advises her on all the traits to avoid in a potential husband; Alice teaches her how to embroider properly (Clarke’s never quite mastered that). They exchange playful banter on an hourly basis, and Clarke is the first person that Alice comes to if she needs advice on how to best assist the queen with an issue.

 

Clarke feels herself falling, and she hates it just as much as Cybil does. This world is so cruel to women, and they are playing a dangerous game; Clarke knows this. She’s smarter than this, and she should be pulling away, not getting closer, but it’s like she’s helpless against her fate. Her love for Alice is like a giant tidal wave, dragging her under until she drowns. Clarke hasn’t drowned just yet, but she knows she’s on the verge.

 

In August, two months after Alice’s arrival, the queen appoints new ladies-in-waiting. Their names are Margaret and Jane, and from the moment Clarke meets them, she does not trust them. There is something in their eyes — greed, a desperate hunger for power, _something_ — that tells her these women are up to no good. In a matter of days, she is proven right. Margaret and Jane decide they do not like Clarke or Alice, and so they steal Alice’s sewing needles and spill wine on Clarke’s favorite dress. _We would call them “bitches” if we were on the Ark,_ Clarke thinks. Instead, she just has to grin and bear it, and pray that the queen doesn’t notice the growing tension between her ladies. Alice is hurt by the mean behavior of the women, but she still curtsies when she sees them, and resorts to complaining to Clarke about it in private. And Clarke just carries on and deals with it — these months have been so good. April, May, even June — they’ve all been beautiful with Alice by her side, no matter how stressed she’s been.

 

September, however, is not a good month.

 

The first two weeks are fine. But on the fifteenth, there is a feast to celebrate the queen’s birthday (even though it was really on the seventh). Clarke watches with narrowed eyes as a baron who strikingly resembles Titus offers Alice a dance. Alice accepts, and they twirl across the ballroom in a flurry of colors. Finn is in the corner, chatting with Lady Jane (Clarke had hoped that his charm would soften the mean-spirited woman, but she only appears to be flirting with him). Elizabeth is holding a glass of mead to her lips, but her taster grabs it, reminding her that he must sample the wine before she drinks it.

 

Clarke stifles a laugh. The expression on tasters’ faces when the queen attempts to eat anything without it being checked first is always comical. This taster has a flair for the dramatic, and it showed on his features when Elizabeth dared to even think of drinking the mead.

 

But then the most horrible choking sounds ring in the air, and the world seems to turn in slow motion as the taster begins to gasp for air and clutch at his throat. Ladies turn away in fright, husbands tell their wives not to look, and guards rush to the taster’s side as his lips turn blue and his face becomes devoid of all color. Clarke can only watch in horror, even as Finn rushes to her side and grabs her arm to try to pull her away from the gruesome scene.

 

The taster is dead in minutes, and the guards don’t allow anyone to leave, save for the queen, who is whisked away to safety. “Who did this?” one guard thunders. “Who tried to poison our queen?”

 

And then, the shout that changes her life: “She did it!” All eyes turn to Jane, who’s pointing frantically at Clarke. Clarke swears she can feel every drop of blood drain from her face. “Cybil Cavell! She meant to poison the queen!”

 

Guards have surrounded her in seconds. Finn’s grip is tighter than ever on her arm. “What do you have to say for yourself, girl?” snarls a guard. “Are these accusations true?”

 

Clarke can barely breathe. She knows without looking that Alice’s eyes are on her from across the room. “No,” she stammers. “I-I would never hurt the queen. I think of her as a sister.”

 

A cruel smirk spreads across the guard’s face. “Take her to the dungeon,” he instructs his cohorts. “Will and I will search her room.”

 

∞

There is no explanation as to why a bottle of poison, half empty, is found in the chambers Clarke shares with Finn. There is no explanation as to why she is not even given a trial before being sentenced to death by guillotine. And there is no explanation as to who would frame Clarke like this.

 

But Clarke has an idea or two. She just can’t believe that Margaret and Jane would hate her so much.

 

Her cell in the Tower of London is dark, damp and lonely. Sometimes, she hears the cries and screams of other prisoners who are being tortured; thankfully, Clarke is spared that. Her execution date is set for two weeks after the attempted poisoning. Two weeks feels like two lifetimes in the Tower, though, and Clarke has no concept of time when the guards enter her room to announce that today is the day.

 

They drag her to the wooden platform where the guillotine lies. There’s a large crowd waiting to see her, but her eyes search for and quickly locate Alice in the crowd. Thankfully, Margaret and Jane had been unable to find a way to implicate Alice in the poisoning, so she remains free, though she has been shunned at court and will likely lose her status as a lady-in-waiting after Clarke’s execution because of how close they were. Finn has been imprisoned, accused of conspiring with Clarke to kill the queen. He will receive a trial, however, and Clarke prays that he will be found innocent. She will die no matter what, but Finn may have a chance.

 

They ask her what her last words are, but she has none. She stares at Alice as she places her head on the block. Alice looks heartbroken and terrified, eyes wide and tears trickling down her cheeks. But she is still beautiful, oh so beautiful.

 

Her last moments are filled with Alice. The crowd roars as the executioner pulls the rope. Alice screams and falls to her knees. Somewhere in the Tower, Finn is writing a letter to his best friend, his Cybil. And Clarke, she stares into green, wild, fiery green, as the blade swings down and hits its mark.


	5. five

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Four-hour flights give a girl a lot of time to write! Hence, the surprise chapter. Thank you for your support :)
> 
> I'd also like to mention that the Triangle Shirtwaist Factory fire WAS a real event, and it was a terrible tragedy. If you'd like to read more about it, feel free to visit Cornell's webpage on the event; it's very informational.
> 
> Thank you for reading and, as always, I hope you enjoy!  
> xo,  
> L

_five._

In the years that pass after the Elizabethan age, Clarke debates which fate was cruelest: the one forced upon her by Jane and Margaret, or the one handed to her by Lord Devereux. Titus’s accidental shooting seems so much easier to bear when it’s compared to all the other callous cards life has handed her along the way. Each ending hurts in its own way, though Clarke’s not sure if it hurts more to be without Lexa or to be with her. It’s hard to decide if all-encompassing loneliness or devastating loss is the most painful.

 

There is a much longer gap between meetings this time. Clarke is certain that she will have to live through another thousand lifetimes before she sees her soulmate again. She comes pretty close to that, actually. In fact, after Cybil’s death in 1545, Clarke is reincarnated what feels like a hundred times over before their next encounter occurs in 1910. 

 

It is March — springtime, one of Clarke’s favorite months of the year. In this life, she is a Scottish immigrant named Clara, who journeyed to the New World (AKA, America) with her family when she was fifteen. Clara’s a much more bitter person than any of Clarke’s previous reincarnations; she is nothing like the meek, innocent Calla or the gentle, sensitive Catherine. Truthfully, she resembles Clarke herself much more closely than any other past form. Maybe it’s because of the kindred hardships they’ve shared; on the voyage to Ellis Island, Clara’s father contracted a lung disease and died. He wasn’t even allowed to be given a proper burial; the body was dumped overboard. It’s eerily similar to the way that Clarke’s own father was floated. _No way to bury a body when it’s drifting through space_ , she thinks grimly.

 

Because of the loss, Clara’s mother was forced to work overtime to support the family. Clara has several siblings, all younger than she, and though Clarke doesn’t feel much for them, when she looks in their big doe eyes and hears their little laughs, some small part of her understands why her mother works herself to the bone to support these children. And Clara loves them, so that helps Clarke be a little more compassionate, even when the baby starts screaming in the middle of the night and she’s the one who’s forced to go take care of it. 

 

Maybe living in a world filled with Grounders and Mountain Men has embittered Clarke. After all, the children make her think of the 12-year-old who killed Welles; Clarke knows that she showed that girl some semblance of empathy and kindness. But that Clarke has been slowly dying ever since her father was floated. A large part of her died with her father. Another died with Welles. And then another with Finn, and when Lexa died, the old Clarke was lost completely, a vague memory to her and something that the rest of the world never even knew to exist. Clarke is _wanheda_ now, the “Commander of Death” — or at least, that's what the Grounders call her, but honestly, experiencing all of her past lives doesn’t make her feel like _wanheda_ at all. It makes her feel weak, and vulnerable, and raw, and it’s a miserable feeling, truthfully, but at the same time, Clarke’s never been so enlightened. Life on the Ark basically discouraged any feeling at all, and trying to survive on the ground left no time for crying, but ever since she drank that potion, Clarke has been one hundred percent in touch with her emotions. And it’s actually kind of great, even if it’s heartbreaking, because having to be stoic and sensible all the time is so _exhausting_. Clarke is sick of being a leader. She’s sick of having to push everything she wants and needs to the side. She’ll still do it when she gets back to Camp Jaha, she knows this, but it’s nice to be able to just be a crazy, confused teenage girl for once and just _feel_. 

 

Anyway, being Clara is kind of like being Clarke, because she’s not allowed to stop and think about what she wants. She has to put the needs of her family before her own, even though it means dropping out of school before she finishes her education and getting the closest job she can find. For Clara, that’s a job at the Triangle Shirtwaist Factory. 

 

It pays well enough, a dollar and a half a week. To Clarke, who is used to hearing about money in millions and billions (from her old history classes on the Ark, of course), that seems like nothing, but in the 1900s, it’s a decent amount for a teenage girl. The hours are late, though; she’ll be on from 7:30 in the morning until six in the evening. This means that the next-door neighbors have to watch her siblings; they’re Scottish, too, so at least they’re somewhat close with Clara’s family and have similar ideas for child-rearing. 

 

She starts her new job in February of 1910. Clarke doesn’t enjoy working at the factory. It’s hard work, and she struggles to adapt to working with the sewing machines. Most of the other girls don’t speak English, and the majority of the ones who do are either too busy or too mean to want to talk to her. Still, it pays the bills, and so Clarke gets through it.

 

March rolls around, and the warm breeze in the air already makes Clarke inexplicably happy. It’s glorious to see New York City before it was destroyed in the nuclear war, even though it’s not the same New York she’s seen pictures of in her textbooks. Earth is incredible without radiation, though Clarke loves the irradiated version just as much, in its own way. She only wishes her loved ones were here to see it with her; Raven would surely be marveling at all of the different contraptions here.

 

New workers stream in every week, but when Clarke walks in one morning to see a new girl in the spot next to hers, her bones start to hum, the way they always do when she’s near some version of Lexa. She tries not to let herself get too excited; this could be a false alarm, and she’s had several of those since 1545. If she gets her hopes up, they’ll surely be crushed.

 

But the girl turns around. Chestnut hair thrown up in a messy bun, with curly tendrils that frame her high cheekbones and bright green eyes. Clarke’s breath catches. She’s found her soulmate again.

 

“Hello. My name is Amelia. And you are?” Lexa’s reincarnation is holding out her hand expectantly, but Clarke’s heart is stuttering in her chest and she can barely breathe. The girl has an accent — she’s obviously British — and it’s so smooth and rich that it kind of makes her want to die, right then and there.

 

“C-Clara,” she stutters, taking the girl’s hand in hers and shaking. Amelia’s hand is warm and soft, and Clarke grimaces to think at how it will become rough and calloused in just a few weeks’ time. 

 

Amelia’s eyes narrow, and Clarke wonders how she’s managed to offend her already. “I take it you’re not from here, judging by your accent,” Amelia says. There’s something venomous in her voice, and Clarke blushes, feeling self-conscious about the Scottish brogue she was born with as Clara. 

 

“Nope. I’m from Scotland.” Clarke tries to say it as proudly as she can, but it’s hard to do when her soulmate is looking at her like she ran over the family dog.

 

And then she realizes the problem. She is from Scotland. Amelia is from England, going off of her accent. At this point in time, Scotland and England hate each other. This is obviously going to be an issue. 

 

“I must get to work,” Amelia responds coolly. Clarke just stands there like a fool, mouth gaping, as her soulmate turns her back on her. This has _got_ to be a joke.

 

∞

It’s not a joke. The universe has really given her a soulmate who truly hates her. It’s awful but, admittedly, slightly funny in its irony — if Murphy were here, he’d be laughing his ass off. Clarke kind of misses the jerk, actually. He’d been incredibly kind to her after Lexa’s death, even though he didn’t have to be. 

 

Clarke tries to be nice to her new coworker. She asks the girl if she wants to go out to lunch with her, but Amelia declines, claiming that she brought her own. When Amelia’s sewing machine jams, Clarke tries to help her, only to be shooed away and watch in awe as her soulmate’s nimble hands quickly repair the machine before a supervisor can come over and yell at her. Clarke even offers her a sip of water after spotting the beads of sweat on the English girl’s forehead, but Amelia refuses. 

 

As the weeks pass by, Amelia does not get any kinder. She doesn’t become meaner, either, but it still irritates Clarke, that her own soulmate could shove her away like this just because of where she’s from. Clarke’s refusal to hate Amelia because of where she’s from isn’t all Clarke; Clara’s soul feels the same way. They both understand the terrible things that Scotland and England have done to each other, but they still don’t understand how you could hate someone you’ve just met because of where they’re from. People can’t help where they’re born, and if Clarke hated people based on where they came from, then she’d probably never have fallen in love with Lexa, or remained friends with Octavia after she decided to join the Grounders.

 

It’s hard to have someone who is supposed to love her be so consistently rude to her, so Clarke begins to hate Amelia, too. When the small group of acquaintances she has at the factory asks her how she feels about the new girl, she responds with a dismissive wave of her hand and says that the girl doesn’t know what she’s doing. It actually couldn’t be further from the truth; Amelia is quickly becoming better than Clarke at making shirtwaists efficiently and beautifully, and that just fuels Clarke’s hatred for her even more. 

 

Feeling this way brings back memories of Clarke’s conflicted state of mind after the Mount Weather incident, after she first became _wanheda_. At that time, her hatred for Lexa was _so intense_ , and Clarke isn’t sure if that was because she loved Lexa so much that she couldn’t believe the other girl had betrayed her or if it was a product of her own self-hatred. Maybe she couldn’t handle what she’d done, so she pushed the entirety of the blame onto someone else, even though the deaths at Mount Weather were only partially Lexa’s fault. Bellamy had a role in it, too, yet Clarke didn’t hate him half as much as she’d despised Lexa. 

 

March turns into April, and then rainy April brings about warm, gentle May. Things at home are getting worse; Clara’s mother is overworked, and her middle sibling, an 11-year-old girl named Rose, has developed a fever that just won’t go away. One day, it gets to the point where Clarke knows she’ll have to stay home the next day and call for a doctor. She’s panicked; she’ll surely be fired if she doesn’t find someone to cover her shift. But none of her “friends” can cover for her; they all either already have shifts or have plans for the next day.

 

Then Clarke hears Amelia talking to the girl next to her, a pretty Czech girl who rather resembles Anya. Amelia mentions that she’ll have tomorrow off, and that she intends to just stay home and relax. When they’re done conversing, Clarke walks over, fingers crossed and praying silently that their connection as soulmates will pull through for her on this one, even if Amelia hates her.

 

Amelia stiffens in her seat as Clarke approaches her, but turns around anyway. “What do you need?” she grinds out.

“Believe me when I say that I do hate to ask, but I need a favor,” Clarke says, biting her lip. She can already see the denial on Amelia’s face, and it makes her want to scream with desperation. “My younger sister is sick, and I need to stay home tomorrow and call for a doctor. Could you possibly cover my shift tomorrow? I’ll cover one of yours, I’ll cover twenty, just _please_ tell me you can do it for me.” Her hand is shaking behind her back, the other clammy and resting by her side. 

 

“And your mother cannot do that?” Amelia asks, raising a brow. 

 

“My mother has to work, or we won’t be able to eat next week.” Clarke says it a little more fiercely than she meant to, and she hopes that she hasn’t offended her soulmate.

 

“And your father?” 

 

Clara’s soul bristles at the remark. “He’s dead,” Clarke spits. Her eyes immediately lower to the floor in a gesture of remorse, knowing that her words came off a little harsh.

 

“Oh.” Amelia’s face has changed; she no longer looks so opposed to Clarke’s request. “Well, I still cannot cover your shift for you. I have plans myself.” 

 

Clarke’s face falls, and Amelia quickly adds, “But I have a friend who works here as well. Her name is Ingrid. She is off tomorrow, and I believe she could cover your shift for you. I will ask during our lunch break.”

 

“Oh, thank you,” Clarke breathes, and when a brief smile flashes across Amelia’s face, she feels like she’s been saved.

 

∞

Amelia pulls through; Ingrid covers Clarke’s shift for her, and she stays home with Rose to oversee the doctor’s appointment. Rose is prescribed a medicine that is costly, but should help with the fever, according to the doctor. Clarke doesn’t care how much it costs, and neither does Clara’s soul; she’ll work fifty shifts if she has to, just as long as Rose gets better.

 

The next day, she returns to work, and she’s glad to see Amelia there. She presents her soulmate with a card from her and all of her siblings, handmade and signed messily. It’s not a particularly elegant thing, but the touched look in Amelia’s eyes makes Clarke want to run home and create another twenty. 

 

And in the blink of an eye, their entire relationship has changed. Amelia doesn’t seem to hate her anymore; in fact, dare she say it, Clarke thinks they’re actually becoming _friends_. They start walking home from work together; they didn’t mean to make it a habit, but the day after Ingrid covered her shift, Clarke offered to walk Amelia home and grab her a coffee or something on the way. Then they just _kept_ doing it, and now it’s like a daily ritual for them. Amelia only lives a block from Clarke, so it’s actually pretty nice.

 

A few weeks later, Clarke decides to be brave and ask Amelia out. Well, to clarify, she’s not going to ask Amelia on a _date_. She has no idea what her soulmate’s relationship status is like, and she needs to focus on making money for her family right now, anyway — not to mention the fact that homosexuality is still completely taboo in 1910. But she wants to go to lunch with her soulmate, and find out more about Amelia’s background. In their past lives together, Clarke feels like things with Lexa have always been so _rushed_. It’s always a hurry to try to get as close as possible before someone dies. But things in this life feel slower, calmer; ironic, since Clarke’s actually working harder than she’s ever had to work before, and her family is barely scraping by. Eleven-hour shifts aren’t exactly easy on the body, and she’s constantly exhausted, but despite all of this, Clarke feels at ease; she feels like maybe Lexa won’t get snatched away from her so quickly this time.

 

So on May 25th, 1910 (she writes the date down in her diary; Clara can be surprisingly sentimental), Clarke asks Amelia if she’d like to go to lunch with her during their break. She says she knows a good place nearby, and also says it’ll be on her, to consider it payback for having Ingrid cover her shift. Amelia smiles, and Clarke takes that as a resounding yes. 

 

Five hours later, they’re sitting at the creaky table of a diner a couple blocks away, a place where Clarke has picked up a slice of pie many a time as a treat for her overworked, underfed mother. Amelia’s grinning at her over her own piece of apple pie. There’s a spot of meringue just by her lips, and Clarke so badly wants to kiss it away.

 

“You’ve—uh, you’ve got something,” Clarke says, pointing to the spot. Amelia tries to wipe at it but fails. After several more attempts, Clarke pities the other girl and just reaches over and brushes it away with the pad of her thumb. Their eyes meet, and heat simmers in Clarke’s stomach. Her thumb is still next to Amelia’s lips.

 

She doesn’t know how long they sit like that until Amelia quietly says, “Thank you,” and she takes that as her cue to remove her finger.

 

“So,” Amelia says, continuing to dig into her slice of pie, “you live with your mother and siblings?” She seems unaffected by the touch, but Clarke’s still struggling to catch her breath.

 

“Yes,” she murmurs, staring down at her plate. “Like I said, my father died several months ago.”

 

“I am sorry for your loss.” There’s an undercurrent of some deep, dark emotion in Amelia’s voice that makes Clarke suspect she really _is_ sorry. “If it is not improper of me, may I ask what happened?” 

 

“He got sick on the boat to Ellis Island and died,” Clarke mutters, toying with her fork. “He didn’t even get to have a proper burial. They just threw him overboard.” Tears spring to her eyes, but Clarke quickly brushes them away before Amelia can notice. She glances up at the other girl to gauge her reaction, fearful that she’s given too many details and has scared her soulmate away.

 

But Amelia doesn’t look scared off. She doesn’t seem uncomfortable, and she doesn’t sport that sad smile of pity that so many others have worn when Clarke tells them about her (Clara’s) father. Her eyes are simply brimming with raw emotion, and in that moment, Clarke knows that Amelia understands her. “The same thing happened to my mother,” Amelia whispers, taking Clarke’s hand. The English girl’s thumb rubs soothing circles on the back of Clarke’s hand, and she wonders if Amelia is even aware that she’s doing it. Maybe she’s just so used to comforting others that it’s become second nature.

 

“I’m so sorry,” Clarke breathes.

 

Amelia shakes her head. “Don’t be sorry. My father was already long dead back home, which was why we came to America in the first place. Losing Mother was terrible, yes, but it taught me independence and survival skills that I would have never known if I had not been on my own. I’ve been here two years now; that’s longer than most other immigrant girls have made it in New York.”

 

Clarke is in awe of this woman, so strong, so self-sufficient. It’s so very _Lexa_ that it hurts to breathe for a second. “You don’t have any siblings?” she manages to get out.

 

“I was an only child.”

 

“Oh. I have three. You’re not missing out on anything,” Clarke muses, and Amelia laughs. It’s a pretty sound, but a loud one, and Clarke appreciates that about her. Amelia obviously isn’t concerned with being ladylike or prim and proper or any of the other stupid rules that 1910 society says she should be.

 

“Yes,” Amelia reminds her through her chuckles, “I know.” _Oh my god. The cards._ Clarke wants to smack herself for being so dumb, but instead she just sits there, feeling the blush that’s heating up her cheeks. Amelia probably thinks she’s the stupidest girl in the world right now, and that’s not a fun feeling.

 

To her credit, Amelia promptly stops laughing when she sees the embarrassment written all over Clarke’s face, and changes the subject to work — now _that’s_ a topic Clarke could rant about all day, if she had the time. The rest of lunch flies by, Clarke suddenly unable to stop talking now that she’s more comfortable with the topic of conversation, and Amelia constantly giggling at something the other girl’s said, an amused twinkle ever-present in her eyes.

 

It’s nice, to have a companion like this. Clarke’s pretty sure she hasn’t had a _really_ good friend since Alice back in 1595. Raven and Octavia haven’t shown up since the mid-1500s; Clarke’s not sure why that is, but it’s frustrating. She can only hope that her friends are reconnecting with their own soulmates, and she has to chuckle at the thought of Lincoln in Elizabethan tights (though it’s also a slightly disturbing mental picture). 

 

With Amelia by her side, working at the factory is much more enjoyable. Clarke doesn’t feel so alone anymore, and it makes things easier, particularly on the harder days when she has to cover someone’s shift and works from dawn to nine PM, or when she comes home to her mother asleep on the couch and her siblings crying for food. Those are the bad days, but Amelia understands, and Amelia sympathizes. Finally, she’s found someone so like her, someone who’s lost nearly everything but is still working hard to gain as much as she can. 

 

There’s so much of Lexa in Amelia that it hurts. Clarke knows she really shouldn’t be surprised by this; after all, they share the same “core” soul. But Lexa’s past reincarnations have been different; Alainne, Livia, and Alice were sweeter, and they’d never worked a day in their lives. Amelia cares about her manners, but they’re not as much of a part of her as they were with Alice. Amelia can be cold when she wants to (as obviously evidenced by her previous hatred of Clarke), but she doesn’t seem as innocent or gentle as Alainne and Livia were. In Amelia, Clarke sees glimpses of the _heda_ that she adored, and it soothes her soul to know that Lexa’s soul has evolved to become more, well… _Lexa_.

 

March 10, 1911; that’s the anniversary of their meeting. Clarke takes Amelia to the diner again for a huge slice of apple pie to celebrate. It’s strange to think that just a year ago, the two girls hated each other so much. It’s surreal to Clarke, and she’s so happy that she’s been able to spend so much time with Amelia. The other reincarnations were taken away from her far too quickly, but Clara and Amelia, they’ve stuck around, and Clarke has finally allowed herself to just _relax_. It seems that this time around, there will be no sudden tragedies or unhappy accidents — and Clarke is thankful for that.

 

Then, just two weeks later, Amelia does something that completely sweeps Clarke off her feet: she suggests they go out to dinner, and then to Central Park for a nice stroll. Clarke isn’t sure if it’s a date (maybe it is, maybe it isn’t), but either way, she’s happy, and honestly just grateful to have this time with her soulmate. She’s not sure how much time she’ll get.

 

They choose March 26th, a day they both have off, for the maybe-date. Clarke hasn’t been this excited for something since she met Alainne. The weeks pass by so slowly that it drives her crazy, but finally, March 25th arrives. _Just one more day_ : that’s the mantra Clarke repeats to herself, over and over, from the moment she wakes up.

 

The workday seems so long, that by the time 4:30 rolls around, it already feels like 9 PM to Clarke. But then she looks over at Amelia, and working suddenly seems a lot easier.

 

At 4:40, Clarke smells smoke. And then, the twinge in Clara’s soul warns her: this is not good. Someone screams, “FIRE!” and Clarke has tears in her eyes already, because _no_ , she’s not ready yet, can’t she just have one more day? Can’t she just go on one date with her soulmate before everything gets ripped away from her again? Why does this have to happen so soon? _I’m not ready. I’m not ready to go. Please don’t make me go._ Clarke doesn’t know who she’s silently pleading with, but she’s begging anyway.

 

It’s only when Amelia tugs on her arm that Clarke realizes she’s just been sitting there, frozen, instead of moving and trying to save them both, like she should be. Already, there’s a mass of bodies, pressing up against the doors and attempting to get out, but something’s wrong. A girl shouts, “ _They’ve locked the damn doors_!” and it dawns on Clarke that this situation is much, much worse than it already appears to be. They will not be exiting on the staircase; they will not be exiting at all. They are trapped.

 

Amelia whispers, “Let’s try the elevators,” and Clarke is relieved to have such an intelligent soul by her side. They run to the elevator shaft, but even from here, Clarke can see that the elevator’s frame is warped and twisted, and it’s clear as day that _nobody_ will be getting on that elevator today.

 

Clarke is coughing, tears streaming down her face, and Amelia is faring similarly. The smoke is overwhelming, choking their lungs, and suddenly, Clara’s soul tells her what she needs to do. _You won’t be getting out of here, so die with the one you love. Die together._

 

Clarke grabs Amelia’s hand, and though the English girl looks confused, she follows Clarke’s lead. It’s difficult to navigate through the crowd of workers, but they manage to make it back to the station, the place where they’ve worked, side-by-side, together for so many months. Clarke only wishes she’d taken better advantage of that time.

 

They crawl under the desks, and then they’re facing each other. Terror is written across Amelia’s face, but only a single, solitary tear rolls down her cheek. It brings back memories of Lexa’s tear when they made love for the first time. Clarke bites back a quiet sob at that.

 

“I love you,” Clarke whispers. “I love you, and no one can take that away from us. Not even death.” Amelia nods fiercely, gripping her hand so tight that it hurts.

 

“I love you, Clara,” she whispers. “Thank you—” she coughs, and Clarke can see the thick black smoke that’s beginning to roll into the room. They don’t have much time left. “Thank you for loving me,” Amelia manages to finish.

 

Through her sobs, Clarke knows what she has to say with her dying breaths. “In peace, may you leave this shore,” she murmurs, pulling her soulmate to her chest. Amelia’s hair still smells of lavender, like it always has, and it’s comforting, even as smoke begins to drift under the desk. “In love, may you find the next.” The smoke is now so thick that she can barely even get the words out. Amelia does not move in her arms. “Safe passage on your travels, until our final journey to the ground…” 

 

Clarke’s eyes fall shut as her lungs struggle for air. “May we meet again.”


	6. six

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> School starts again tomorrow, so I will not be updating as frequently. As always, thank you for reading!
> 
> xo,  
> L

_six._

The wait to meet her soulmate again is not as long this time, but it is still equally frustrating. Clarke’s not even sure if she wants to see Lexa again; losing Amelia felt like a stab in the heart. She was so close to being happy, but then life had to go and take that from her, too. As if she hasn’t already lost enough: her father; her friends; Lexa, a thousand times over. It makes Clarke want to die, but she knows that if she does that, she’ll just wake up again as a new version of herself.

 

Her life as Caitlin Gallagher is one of the most interesting reincarnations by far. As a child growing up on the Ark, Clarke was always fascinated by the sections of her history textbooks that detailed World War II. Many people referred to the nuclear apocalypse that destroyed Earth as “World War III,” and so younger Clarke somehow decided that it was absolutely necessary to learn everything she could about WWII. 

 

So Clarke’s pleasantly surprised when she discovers that Caitlin Gallagher is 15 years old when World War II starts for the United States. However, this “pleasant surprise” soon turns into a soul-crushing misery. Two years after America’s entry into the war, Clarke’s in awe of anyone who could possibly find it in themselves to be happy right now. Rations restrict what she and her family can eat. So many boys from her small hometown of Elysian Falls, Iowa, have been drafted and killed. Every day, a new gold star goes up on someone’s house, symbolizing another man that’s died. The Japanese families in the neighborhood have moved out, and the Jewish families always have haunted looks in their eyes. The bulletins in the newspaper of those killed in action keep growing longer. Clarke wonders when it will all end.

 

For the first time in any of Clarke’s lives, she gets to go to school. Caitlin is a junior at Elysian Falls High School, and a straight-A student at that. Clarke enjoys the experience, even if some of the other girls can be rather catty and the boys only seem to be able to talk about being drafted, volunteering for service, and “fighting the good fight”. If women could volunteer, Clarke would; Caitlin’s soul feels so helpless, and as the war progresses, Clarke understands why. Hitler’s ideas are crazy and terrifying, and to live here seems to mean to always be in silent mourning. 

 

It’s October of 1943 — barely a month into the school year — when the local gossips begin to whisper that there is a new family in town. A _German_ family. Of course, this idea horrifies the blond-haired, blue-eyed, shiny-smiled all-American boys, who declare that they’ll kick the ass of any German who tries to walk through the school hallways. The girls make their boyfriends vow to protect them from the big bad “Aryan monster”. Clarke remains silent through it all. She chooses to continue to believe in her “don’t judge them until you know them” policy.

 

Sure enough, it’s October 7th, 1943 (one month before the anniversary of Pearl Harbor) when the German shows up. But the German is not the tall, blonde, muscular monster of a boy that all of Elysian Falls had imagined. No, the German is a petite, dark-haired girl with the brightest green eyes anyone’s ever seen.

 

It’s Lexa. In this life, she goes by Anneliese. She rarely speaks, and when she does, it’s in perfect, albeit slightly-accented, English. Clarke likes Anneliese’s accent, but her classmates torment the girl for it. They call her the “Nazi pig” and shove her into lockers so many times a day that Anneliese stops wearing short-sleeved dresses, because the bruises on her arms are too noticeable. 

 

Clarke tries to stay away from her. She really does; honestly, she tries so hard that she deserves some kind of award for it, because does anyone actually know how _difficult_ it is to attempt to avoid someone when every cell in your body is screaming at you to be as close to them as possible? Trying to avoid Anneliese is its own special kind of torture, worse than anything the Grounders could ever inflict on her. She doesn’t say “hi” to the girl, doesn’t take a green bean casserole over to the new neighbors (cruelly enough, Anneliese and her parents have moved in across the street, taking the place of the Japanese family that used to live there). Clarke just keeps to herself and keeps her grades up, even though her heart breaks a little every day she sees Anneliese so miserable. 

 

But the first day that Anneliese doesn’t show up to school, and Clarke hears some of the boys in math class congratulating each other on giving the “German bitch” a black eye?

 

_That’s_ when she finally cracks.

 

Clarke doesn’t have any control over her body. Well, it’s Caitlin’s body, actually, and Caitlin’s actions, too — to Caitlin’s soul, this is familiar, and it makes sense that Caitlin would finally stand up for Anneliese, considering how her soul has flared up with anger every time she hears or sees someone bullying the German girl. But the next thing Clarke knows, she’s slapping the ringleader of the boys (Harold is his name, maybe) and shouting in his face.

 

“What is _wrong_ with you? You think she deserves to be punished because of where she’s from?” Faintly, Clarke’s aware that she’s no longer shouting, she’s _screaming_. “You don’t know a _thing_ about her, Harold! You’re just as bad as Hitler, trying to hurt someone because of her background and her ethnicity. But you don’t know anything about Anneliese. Who are we to judge her because she’s from Germany? For all we know, she could be a perfectly nice person, and here you are, slapping her around like she’s done something to you! She’s never done _anything_ to you!” Clarke’s voice wears out on the last sentence, because that’s the one she shrieks the loudest. And she knows, she _knows_ that all of her classmates are looking at her like she’s crazy for this, but she no longer has the ability to care. What is the point in pretending that she doesn’t care when every part of her _does_ care, so very much? It doesn’t make her a strong person; it only makes her a selfish one. She’s been avoiding Anneliese to protect herself, but that’s so _stupid_. Clarke can’t outrun fate. No one can.

 

“Jesus, Gallagher, lay off me,” Harold mutters, rubbing at his cheek. There’s a red hand-shaped imprint from where Clarke slapped him, but she’s not sorry for it at all. “Sure, for all we know, she could be a great gal, but for all we know, she could also be making shrines to Hitler in her basement. And that’s the much more likely scenario, so how about you go sit back down and focus on your algebra before Mr. Jenkins comes back in here? Stop trying to be a hero for a Nazi that would mow you down in five seconds flat if you gave her the chance.”

 

“You’re a coward,” Clarke hisses. “You are a _coward_. You bully a seventeen-year-old girl, and for what? To prove a point? Because you think all Germans are evil? No, Harold, it’s because you’re scared. You’re _scared_ of a girl who’s nine inches shorter than you. And that reason is exactly why the Army will _never_ let a guy like you become a General.” Harold’s eyes are burning with anger, and Clarke smiles smugly, knowing she’s hit a nerve. It’s Harold’s dream to become a war general, just like his dad was. 

 

“Little girls shouldn’t get involved in men’s politics,” Harold snarls, rising to his feet. At six feet, he towers over Clarke, but she’s not afraid. She’ll take a punch to the face if she has to, she doesn’t care; Anneliese has dealt with much worse already. “Sit back down, Gallagher. Before I have to give you the Nazi Treatment, too.” 

 

Clarke’s not going to sit down, but then she sees her teacher walking into the classroom and is forced to relent. She won’t be able to carry out her plan to help Anneliese if she’s stuck in after-school detention.

 

∞

The rest of the school day is filled with taunting whispers, judgmental looks, and not-so-accidental shoves in the hallway. Clarke knows it’s because of the way she yelled at Harold about Anneliese, but she doesn’t regret it one bit. In her mind, anyone who would use their ignorance as a shield and an excuse for hitting an innocent girl is no better than Hitler. 

 

The moment the bell rings, Clarke’s running out of there like her life depends on it. She hops on her bike and pedals as fast as possible, throwing the bike carelessly to the ground when she arrives home (if her father were home, he’d chew her out for that, but thankfully, he’s at work). Five minutes later, she’s walking out of the house with a green bean casserole, fresh out of the oven, thanks to her mother, who’s always cooking and always happy to give food away if she thinks it’s for one of Clarke’s friends.

 

Clarke is at the little white house across the street, finger hovering over the doorbell, before she can stop herself. She takes a deep breath and presses the bell, smiling faintly at the happy music that rings out in the air; such a contrast against the dark, exhausted atmosphere of a country at war. Clarke can hear the click-clacking of heels rushing to answer the doorbell, and she guesses that Anneliese’s mother must be coming. Her suspicions are confirmed when a pretty brunette woman opens the door. She could pass for Anneliese’s sister if it weren’t for the dark circles accentuating her pale blue eyes and the slightest of wrinkles marking her features.

 

“Oh, hello,” the woman says, seemingly taken aback. Clarke guesses they haven’t had many visitors since moving to Elysian Falls. “Can I help you with something?” Like Anneliese, the woman’s English is perfect, but hers is far more heavily accented than her daughter’s.

 

“Actually, this is for you,” Clarke says, presenting the casserole to the woman. A surprised smile settling on her features, Anneliese’s mother hesitantly takes the offering from her hands.

 

“You are too kind,” she murmurs. After a brief pause, she says, “I have been very impolite. Would you like to come inside for a moment, perhaps enjoy a glass of lemonade? It is very hot out for October.” 

 

Clarke shakes her head. “That’s a tempting offer, but I’m actually here to see Anneliese,” she explains. “Is that okay? She’s not busy right now, is she?”

 

“No, no, of course not,” Anneliese’s mother says, waving her hands like the mere thought of Anneliese being too busy for visitors is ridiculous. “Anneliese always has time for a friend. Please, come in.” She nudges the door open, and Clarke follows the woman into the foyer, watching as she sets the casserole down on a nearby table and approaches the bottom of the staircase.

 

“Anneliese! _Jemand aus der Schule ist hier, Sie zu sehen!_ ” the woman calls.

 

“ _Wer_?” a voice that Clarke recognizes as Anneliese’s shouts back.

 

Anneliese’s mother turns to her. “I am sorry, dear, but I do not know your name,” she says apologetically. “And I never introduced myself, either. My name is Gertrude Wilhelm; I am Anneliese’s mother.” 

 

“Caitlin Gallagher,” Clarke tells her, shaking the woman’s hand.

 

“ _Caitlin ist hier! Höflich sein!_ ” Mrs. Wilhelm shouts up in reply to her daughter.

 

When Anneliese doesn’t respond, her mother seems to take that as an okay. “Please go up,” she says to Clarke. “I must run an errand, so I may not still be here when you leave. It was a pleasure to meet you, and thank you for coming to see my Anneliese. I cannot wait to try the casserole.”

 

“Of course,” Clarke chirps, already halfway up the stairs. 

 

Anneliese’s door is the first one to the right; Mrs. Wilhelm didn’t tell her that, but Clarke knows this because she can smell the lavender drifting from the room. One funny peculiarity of Lexa’s reincarnations is that they have all favored lavender perfume. Even Lexa, commander of thirteen tribes and slayer of men, still liked to dab a little lavender oil in her hair before battle. When Clarke teased her about it, Lexa had claimed that it was to “mask the scents of war”, but anyone could plainly see that was a bold-faced lie. Now, just thinking about it makes Clarke want Lexa back, lavender oil and all. 

 

Clarke slowly opens the door to Anneliese’s bedroom, making sure the door doesn’t creak so it doesn’t bother the girl. She finds her perched on her bed, reading a compilation of Hans Christian Andersen fairytales in English. The German girl is only wearing a thin yellow sundress, and Clarke flinches when she sees the myriad of bruises splattered across her soulmate’s shoulders, some a sickly yellow-green, others a dark purplish-blue. And that’s only a quarter of the marks; Clarke knows there are probably more on Anneliese’s upper arms and back, but it’s covered by the long brown curls that Clarke’s soul has always adored.

 

“You did not knock,” Anneliese murmurs, not even stopping to look up from her book. “That is considered rude in America, is it not?” Clarke remains silent. “At least, it was in my country,” Anneliese adds, placing a silver bookmark in between the pages and closing her book. She finally looks at Clarke, and when their eyes meet, electricity races through Clarke’s veins. Anneliese just scowls at her, disgust palpable in those stormy eyes, so darkened with anger that they resemble hurricanes. The black eye that Howard bragged about in math class is not visible; Clarke guesses that Anneliese must have covered it with makeup.

 

“You are here to mock me, to call me a Nazi and ask where my Hitler shrine is, are you not?” Anneliese asks. Clarke’s fists curl instinctively, her body ready to search for and exact vengeance on whoever said those horrible things to her soulmate. Anneliese sees this and takes it as a threat. “Oh, so you are here to hurt me physically, then?” The girl throws her hair over her shoulders, exposing more bruises, and levels an icy glare at her. “Go ahead. Do what you want. I was getting tired of reading, anyway.” 

 

It seems like a challenge, but it’s not a challenge that Clarke wants to meet. She throws her hands up in a gesture of surrender and shakes her head. “I’m not here to hurt you, Anneliese, not in any way.”

 

“Then why are you here?” the other girl interrupts. “I have never even met you before.”

 

“I want to help,” Clarke says earnestly, stepping closer to Anneliese. The girl doesn’t trust her, and shows this in the way she balks and scoots backwards on the bed. Clarke doesn’t want to make her uncomfortable, so she decides to keep her distance and remain where she is, standing a few feet away from the bed. 

 

“How do you think you can help?” Anneliese demands. “I do not even know your name.”

 

“It’s Caitlin. Caitlin Gallagher. We’re in the same math class.” No flicker of recognition in Anneliese’s eyes, so Clarke tries again. “Period 4? Mr. Jenkins, Algebra?”

 

Finally, Anneliese’s shoulders relax and she nods her head. “Ah, yes. Algebra, the bane of my existence.” Then her eyes narrow again, and she assumes the same, straight posture of a woman who does not trust anything around her. “Why do you want to help me, Caitlin Gallagher? And how do you plan to do that?” 

 

Clarke takes a deep breath, praying that this will work. “I know that a lot of people at school have hurt you. They call you awful names and they push you into lockers,” she begins, eyes flicking over to the bruises on Anneliese’s arms. The German girl looks uncomfortable at this and crosses her arms in a sneaky attempt to hide the marks. “It’s not okay. It’s wrong, and I’m sorry for that. They’re just scared cowards, but that doesn’t make it right. So if you want, you can walk from class to class with me, and I’ll make sure that anyone who wants to hurt you has to go through me first.” Clarke tries a smile at this, but Anneliese doesn’t seem to bite. She just looks irritated. “I’ll even walk you home from school if you want. I just think that maybe a buddy system might be worth a shot.”

 

Finished with her spiel, Clarke stands there in silence, watching Anneliese. It doesn’t appear that her suggestion has touched the other girl at all, and in fact, she looks even angrier than before. Finally, after a pregnant pause, Anneliese speaks up. “That was a nice little speech, Caitlin, but I do not need a protector. I can take care of myself.” 

 

Clarke groans internally but doesn’t let her exasperation show. “I never said you needed protecting, Anneliese,” she says. “I’m just tired of seeing you bruised and hurt because you got unlucky enough to go to a school of bigots. And I’d imagine you have to be pretty tired of it, too. But if you don’t want my help, I can go.”

 

Anneliese has been staring at the wood floor while Clarke’s been talking, but she looks up at this, and there’s palpable emotion in her eyes, a mix between desperation and relief. “No, stay,” she says softly. “Please,” she adds after a beat.

 

Clarke doesn’t even hesitate. “Okay. Is it alright if I sit down, though? It’s been a long day.” Anneliese moves a little to the side on her bed, making room for Clarke to sit down. She takes this as a peace offering and immediately plops down on the bed.

 

They just sit there for a moment, breathing and taking in the quiet. Clarke suspects that Anneliese doesn’t get much quiet at home; Gertrude is sweet, but she definitely seems like she could be the hovering type, and if she’s gotten even a glance at the array of bruises on her daughter’s arms, Clarke would bet a million bucks that she’s barely left Anneliese alone these past few weeks.

 

“Hans Christian Andersen?” Clarke finally says, gesturing to Anneliese’s book, still sitting in her lap. 

 

“Yes,” Anneliese nods. “He has been my favorite author since I was a little girl.” This takes Clarke by surprise; Anneliese, and really Lexa’s soul in general, doesn’t seem the type for fairytale fantasies, but then again, Andersen’s original stories tend to have dark twists, so maybe it’s not that out of character for her soulmate.

 

“Why in English?” Clarke asks. “Doesn’t it lose a lot of its original meaning when you translate it from German?”

 

“Andersen did not originally write his stories in German,” Anneliese corrects her. “He was Danish. But I read all my books in English. It helps me improve my vocabulary, and it also makes me look less suspicious if I decide to go read out in public.” 

 

Sadness washes over Clarke at this, as she realizes that if Anneliese were to be seen reading a German book, she’d probably suffer from even more persecution than she already does. It’s so incredibly unfair. People come to America expecting a new life and a chance to be happy, but instead they’re met with bigotry and hatred just because of where they’re from. How is that any better than what Hitler and Mussolini are doing?

 

Clarke blows out a long breath, trying to gauge Anneliese’s mood and debating if she should just get up and leave. But there’s something in Anneliese’s face that compels her, _orders_ her to stay. There’s pleading in the blue of her eyes, raw, open emotion in the slight dilation of her pupils that even a stream of tears wouldn’t express as clearly or beautifully. And it’s the look on her soulmate’s face that tells Clarke the other girl has never felt so alone in a country so full of people. It breaks her heart.

 

“I don’t want you to feel patronized, Anneliese,” Clarke says slowly, choosing her words carefully. “And if you don’t want me to walk with you to class, if you don’t want to join me in the hallway — that’s okay. It’s your choice. But please let me be your friend.” Anneliese blinks at this, like she’s surprised that anyone would want to befriend her, and Clarke’s chest aches. 

 

“You want to be my friend?” Anneliese questions. Clarke nods, a lump suddenly appearing in the back of her throat. She doesn’t know why the look of contained desperation in Anneliese’s eyes makes her want to sob like a child, but it does, and it’s possibly the saddest she’s ever felt.

 

Anneliese is staring at Clarke, and she realizes how her emotions are probably written across her face. Unlike Clara, Caitlin Gallagher is an open book, calling Catherine and Calla to mind, earnest with her intentions and determined to meet her goals. She’s quite the all-American girl, Clarke thinks, even if she doesn’t really want to be if it means she’s in any way similar to the people who have persecuted Anneliese. 

 

Seeing the look on Clarke’s face makes Anneliese go stoic. Her face sets to stone, any trace of emotion disappearing completely from her pretty features. Clarke prepares herself for a rejection, perhaps even an order to leave immediately and never come back. She bets she might even see the brown cardboard of moving boxes within the next week or two.

 

But at her core, Lexa has always been a wildcard, constantly surprising Clarke with ideas and feelings that completely contradict everything she seems to be, and Anneliese is no different. “Perhaps being your friend would not be so terrible,” the German girl declares, and there’s a hint of teasing in her voice that lets Clarke know everything will be okay, that Anneliese hasn’t been permanently embittered and ruined by the harsh words and even harsher actions of those who hate her for where she was born. 

 

She has not been this relieved since an English girl gave her a beautiful smile in a doomed factory in 1910. 

 

∞

Anneliese and Clarke chat about their favorite books for what only seems like a few minutes, but must be hours, because when Clarke next looks out the window, the sun is setting, and she knows her mother must be worried. She has to go in order to spare her mother a heart attack, but promises she’ll see Anneliese at school on Monday (it’s Friday).

 

The weekend gives Clarke time to think, worry, relax, and then worry some more. She doesn’t know if, when, or how she’ll lose Anneliese this lifetime, but Clarke knows one thing for sure: Howard Greene will have to kill Clarke before he tries to hurt Anneliese again. She promises herself that there will not be another bruise on her soulmate’s body for as long as she lives.

 

Clarke wakes up an hour earlier than she needs to on Monday. She takes the time to shower, braid her hair in the French style that her mother taught her, and even spritz on some rose-scented perfume, left behind by her grandmother, who died when Caitlin was five years old. She only uses the perfume on special occasions, like parties (which are rarely held these days) and birthdays (which are celebrated even more now, but the tone seems to be more like “congrats you survived another year” and there are no presents or cake), but Clarke figures this is a pretty special occasion. At least, it’s special to Caitlin’s soul, and therefore special to hers.

 

Clarke is ready for the day at 6:30; normally, she doesn’t leave the house until 7:00, but by 6:45, she’s so fidgety that she hops on her bike anyway and pedals off to school. She arrives at 6:55, and is preoccupied with locking her bike up when she spots a figure on the front steps. Clarke forgets about her bike chain and walks up to the steps, where a closer look confirms her suspicions: it’s Anneliese, clad in a blue sundress this time, the ever-present white cardigan (does the girl have a revolving closet of them?) tied around her waist instead of shrugged over her shoulders. Clarke wonders if she only puts the cardigan on at school, but what would be the point? It’s not like Anneliese’s attackers don’t know the bruises are there when they’re the ones who caused them.

 

As Clarke approaches the German girl, her beauty continues to take her breath away. Anneliese looks so at rest, so content and peaceful reading her book (today, it’s _The Scarlet Letter_ ), that Clarke almost doesn’t want to disturb her. In fact, her fingers are aching for a stick of charcoal and a sketch pad that she doesn’t have; those things are luxuries when your country is at war, and Anneliese would probably find it creepy anyway. But the feeling is familiar, and it reminds her of drawing a sleeping Lexa, so beautiful, so devastating. _If only you’d known how little time you had left with her,_ Clarke thinks to herself, and her throat closes up.

 

Anneliese spots Clarke before she can even say hello, and the other girl closes her book and stands up. She doesn’t wave or greet Clarke, but the way that the brunette’s eyes seem to lighten just a touch lets Clarke know that she’s somewhat happy to see her. “Why are you here so early?” Those are the first words out of Anneliese’s mouth as Clarke finally reaches her. 

 

“Ah, that’s for me to know and you to find out,” Clarke jokes. Anneliese doesn’t laugh, and so she quickly adds, “I’m just kidding. Actually, I woke up kind of early and couldn’t stand to be in the house any longer. What about you?”

 

“My father drops me off at 6:30; the bookstore opens at 6:45,” Anneliese says.

 

Clarke’s brows furrow. “The bookstore? You mean, the one that just opened on Main Street?” It’s a cute little place called Anna’s Books, and prizes itself on its small collection of rare first-editions, but Clarke hasn’t seen many customers there. 

 

“Yes,” Anneliese confirms. “Anna’s Books. It’s owned and operated by my parents. I work there on the weekends.” 

 

“Who’s Anna?” Clarke asks. It’s 7:00, and the school has just opened, so they start heading towards the front doors.

 

Anneliese flushes pink; it’s a good look on her, Clarke thinks faintly. “It’s my father’s nickname for me,” she mutters, staring at her shoes. “It was nice when I was younger, but now it’s become more of an irritation.” Or so she says, but Clarke can tell from the hint of warmth in her green eyes that Anneliese still adores the name.

 

“Understandable,” Clarke nods. They’ve reached the main hallway and continue straight. Clarke’s locker is 21C, but she doesn’t think to ask Anneliese what number her locker is. She’s carrying a beaten, brown leather satchel of a decent size, so maybe she doesn’t need one.

 

They’re silent the rest of the way, Anneliese not talking and Clarke making no effort to force her to. They don’t part after Clarke shoves her textbooks in her locker, however; Clarke walks Anneliese to her first class, English with Mrs. Parsons. They get there far before any of Anneliese’s tormentors, so Clarke doesn’t have to bare her teeth and raise her fists just yet.

 

No, that part comes later in the day, on the way to math. Anneliese and Clarke have just walked into Mr. Jenkins’ classroom when Howard blocks the way to their desks.

 

“Really, Gallagher? First you chew me out over the Nazi, and now you’re trying to be friends with her, too?” he growls. “Are you crazy? You want to get beaten up right next to the Hitler-lover? A two-for-one special for me and my boys?” Howard’s tall and muscular — he’s the quarterback of the Elysian Falls High football team for a reason — but Clarke’s not intimidated. She throws back her shoulders, glares up at him, and somehow feels taller for it.

 

“You won’t be beating _anyone_ up, Howard,” she snarls. “Touch Anneliese, and I swear to God, I’ll make sure the Army never even lets you sign your name to enlist. Touch me, and you’ll be off the football team in the time it takes me to march down to Coach’s office and show him the bruises. _Don’t touch us, don’t talk to us, don’t even look at us._ You got me?” Hints of _wanheda_ have crept into her voice, but Clarke doesn’t try to hide it; she embraces it, knowing it will help her intimidate the boy.

 

Howard swallows hard, and Clarke knows the comments about football and the Army have hit home. She takes the opportunity to add, “Oh, and by the way, feel free to spread the message to all your buddies, too. I’m sure they wouldn’t enjoy getting kicked off the team, either.” With that, she grabs Anneliese’s hand and marches out of the classroom. Howard calls her a bitch as she leaves, but she can hear the slight tremble in his voice, and that’s enough to tell her she’s won.

 

∞

Anneliese is more talkative after the incident with Howard. She seems less wary around Clarke, dare she say, more trusting, even. They start to become friends without even really trying; one day, Anneliese brings a small container of sauerkraut for Clarke to try, and she actually throws her head back and _laughs_ when Clarke makes a bit of a face and then apologizes profusely after tasting it. Clarke introduces her to the wonder that is corn on the cob. They give each other books, and the best kind of books, too — battered, marked, dog-eared copies that have been loved and re-read many a time. Clarke gets Anneliese to try F. Scott Fitzgerald; Anneliese persuades Clarke to give Charlotte Brontë a shot. _The Great Gatsby_ and _Jane Eyre_ quickly become their favorite novels to peruse over together on Friday nights, when they’ll curl up on someone’s couch (usually Anneliese’s, because Clarke’s parents are still a little nervous about her befriending a German girl, unfortunately) and read out the passages they love the most.

 

As for the bullies, they leave Anneliese and Clarke alone, for the most part. There’s the occasional stinky fish or rotten egg left in Clarke’s locker, and Anneliese still gets nasty notes from time to time, but it’s a lot better than it was before the talk with Howard. Clarke hopes that Anneliese doesn’t feel bad about it; she doesn’t want her soulmate to think of herself as weak or incapable of protecting herself just because Clarke stepped in. 

 

Anneliese starts telling her about Germany in February, when they’ve been friends for three months. It takes her a while to become comfortable with the topic; Clarke has brought it up a few times, back in December and January, but in the past, Anneliese always shut it down very quickly. Maybe it’s because the country she grew up in has become so unrecognizable to her; maybe it’s because she’s scared that if she starts talking about Germany fondly, Clarke will turn on her and call her a Nazi. Anneliese should know her better than that by now, but fear makes people think irrationally, Clarke has had to remind herself.

 

But when Anneliese does begin to talk about Germany, it’s wonderful. She explains that her family managed to sneak out in 1939, when the war started, and that they moved to New York City, where her father found a job at a factory. However, he was fired when America joined the war, under the guise of no longer being needed, though it was obvious that it was just plain prejudice on his employer’s part. Anneliese had family in Iowa City, so they decided to move to Elysian Falls, where her father bought a failing bookstore and turned it into Anna’s Books. And after Anneliese has established that story, she discusses her childhood memories; warm strudel on cold winter mornings, fields of flowers, afternoons in the bookstore with Papa after school (apparently, Mr. Wilhelm owned a bookstore back in Germany). And the hard times, too: when German currency no longer had any value, so people burned money by the bucket; when Hitler came into power, and every move was tinged with fear; when the SS officers marched into her town and executed a Jewish man in front of the bookstore, a regular customer of her father’s that Anneliese remembered as always having a kind smile on his face.

 

These memories are hard for Anneliese, and even harder for Clarke to listen to when she sees the pain in her soulmate’s eyes. But it is easier when she remembers that Anneliese is only telling her this because she trusts her, and that warms her heart enough to take the ache away. 

 

As spring comes, Anneliese starts to look at her with warmer eyes; Clarke calls them “heart eyes” in her mind. It seems like they barely spend a waking moment apart, and Clarke takes up the habit of visiting Anneliese at the bookstore on weekends. She’s probably their most regular customer, if she’s being honest; she saves up enough money to buy at least one new book every two weeks. Clarke’s parents don’t adore her new friend, but they’re nice enough; Clarke’s mother is better about it than her father, who warns her to be “careful” about who she hangs out with.

 

Clarke’s not stupid. She knows they’re falling in love; her soul recognizes the feeling. But to not fall in love with Anneliese Wilhelm would be impossible, and she’d bet that anyone would agree with her on that. How could you _not_ want to love her when you’ve seen the way her eyes crinkle at the corners when she laughs, the way her hair curls so wildly yet perfectly and falls over her shoulders, the way she wrinkles her nose when she’s disgusted by something? How could you not, when you’ve seen both the sensitive and the strong sides of her, and know that both sides torment her equally? How could you not? 

 

The taunts start in April. She’s walking with Anneliese to math when someone calls out, “Dykes!” and snickers all down the hallway. It doesn’t bother Clarke, who is used to that kind of attitude after months of being questioned about her love for Lexa in Polis and Camp Jaha, but it makes Anneliese’s cheeks burn and eyes flash. Clarke knows without asking that the words ring in her soulmate’s ears for the rest of the day.

 

The teasing gets worse as April continues and turns into May. Clarke begins to find notes on her desk, full of horrible slurs about Germans and lesbians that no one should ever have to hear. She wants to correct them, tell them she’s bisexual, but she figures that probably wouldn’t make much of a difference, might even make the bullying worse. She can’t protect Anneliese from the notes; Howard’s not scared of her anymore, apparently having been reassured by his coach that he would not be punished for “fighting the good fight”. Clarke is disgusted by the world around her, and Anneliese is her only respite from that.

 

And then, June happens. It’s the last week of school; in just a few days, Clarke and Anneliese will be seniors, and it makes Clarke smile to think about graduating with her soulmate by her side. But she’s been feeling anxious lately; her chest is constantly tight, she can never take a truly deep breath, and even the slightest tap on the shoulder from Anneliese makes her jump. Her soul is uneasy, and Clarke does not want to admit to herself that she thinks she knows why.

 

They are standing and talking outside of Anneliese’s English class on a Tuesday morning when the latest edition of the school newspaper falls at Clarke’s feet. She picks it up, and starts reading, Anneliese looking over her shoulder. The headline says, “HOMOSEXUALITY: MENTAL ILLNESS OR CRIME?” Clarke immediately feels sick to her stomach, not just because of the disgusting headline, but mainly because her soul is screaming at her to put down the paper and stop reading.

 

The article is full of opinions from “doctors” and concerned mothers, who all denounce homosexuality and say that it’s for sinners. Clarke can barely breathe, and she’s pretty sure she hears Anneliese gulping back tears behind her. She wants to hold out her hand for Anneliese to take it, to comfort her soulmate, but she doesn’t. People are watching, and the bell is about to ring. In thirty seconds, the hallway will be full of her peers and all their judgmental stares. She would only embarrass Anneliese.

 

But it’s not the body of the article that’s important. It’s the very last two lines. Clarke gets tunnel vision as she reads it. _But perhaps the best person to ask about homosexuality would be a homosexual. So, if you’re curious, feel free to ask one of Elysian Falls’ own resident lesbians — Caitlin Gallagher and Anneliese Wilhelm!_

 

Behind her, Anneliese lets out a small sob. Clarke drops the paper and turns to comfort her, but it’s too late; Anneliese has run off in the opposite direction. “I hope you’re happy, you assholes!” Clarke screams. She’s seeing red and she knows that she’s probably a scary sight right now: nostrils flaring, fists clenched, eyes narrowed. But she doesn’t care; let them see _wanheda_. They’ve hurt Anneliese, her soulmate, and they deserve whatever terror she decides to inflict on them.

 

But revenge is not the priority right now. The most important thing is finding Anneliese. Clarke has a good idea of where she could be: outside, where the smokers congregate during lunch and after school. The spot will be devoid of people right now, the smokers in class (because this is _Iowa_ , no one skips class here) right along with everyone else. And thankfully, the smokers’ area faces the woods and is at the back of the school, so they won’t be spotted. Hopefully.

 

Clarke’s legs carry her as fast as they can, and she blocks out her surroundings until she reaches the doors that lead outside. She pulls them open so fast that she scrapes her hands on the metal, and runs outside, finally reaching the smokers’ area and doubling over from her efforts, gasping in the cool morning air. She can only just hear the slightest of whimpers from her left, but she knows that it’s Anneliese. Any other girl in Elysian Falls would _want_ the attention, would _want_ to be noticed, and therefore wouldn’t make an effort to be quiet. Anneliese is different.

 

When her breathing has steadied, Clarke approaches her soulmate, slowly and cautiously. She doesn’t want to startle Anneliese, who’s probably bordering on hysterical right now anyway, even if the Lexa in her won’t allow her to show it. To be outed as gay in the 1940s… That’s bad enough. But to be outed as gay when you’re already a German immigrant in the 1940s, that is far worse.

 

Anneliese is perched on the ground, surrounded by cigarette butts, knees pulled to her chest. Tears are streaming down her face, but her eyes show no emotion in them; they’re blank, unfeeling. _Very Lexa,_ Clarke thinks grimly as she sits next to her soulmate. Their backs are touching, but they’re not facing each other.

 

“I’m sorry, Anneliese,” she murmurs. She’s close enough that she can smell the lavender wafting from her love’s hair. “I had no idea this would happen. If I’d known, I would have protected you from it. I’m sorry.” 

 

Anneliese whips around so quickly that Clarke knows she said the wrong thing. That and the dark emerald of her soulmate’s eyes clues her in to Anneliese’s fury. “You don’t need to protect me, Caitlin,” she spits. “I’m not some fragile, broken thing you have to shelter from the world. I’m my own person, and I can take care of myself, with or without you.” 

Clarke’s aware that this is all just emotion talking, but the words still sting. “I know, Anneliese,” she rasps, the lump in her throat making it hard for her to speak properly. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean it like that.”

 

“Yes, you did,” Anneliese retorts, “and stop apologizing. Apologies mean nothing when the damage has already been done.” She stands up, brushing the dust off her dress, and Clarke scrambles to her feet, desperate to not let her soulmate walk away. It’s giving her terrible flashbacks to Mount Weather, when Lexa betrayed her and just _walked away_ , and Anneliese will not do this to her, she can’t, Clarke won’t be able to handle it.

 

“Please, Anneliese,” Clarke whispers, searching her soulmate’s eyes for a hint of emotion. She finds none, only dark, dark green. “Don’t leave me. Stay here. I’ll fix it. _We’ll_ fix it. You don’t have to go.”

 

“I need to go be with my family, Caitlin,” Anneliese says simply, and then she’s gone.

 

∞

Clarke goes home, too, and by the time she’s walked through the front door, her parents have already surrounded her and pepper her with questions. Gossip travels fast in Elysian Falls, and the news of the German immigrant and her lesbian lover has already spread across town, far enough that her father came home from work to talk to her about it and her mother is weeping at the kitchen table, asking what the neighbors will think.

 

Clarke doesn’t blame them for their homophobia; it’s the 1940s, she can’t expect her parents to be progressive. If this was the 1980s, or even later than that, hell yeah, she’d be mad. But it’s 1944, and there is a war going on, and there are far more important things in life than a school newspaper calling her a lesbian. This is what she tells her parents. It doesn’t do much to console them, but her mother calms down after a glass of wine, and her father retreats to his office for the day.

 

When her mother has had a little too much wine and has fallen asleep on the couch, she sneaks out to the little white house across the street. The lights are not on, and as Clarke walks up, she spots a piece of paper pinned between the screen and the front door. Her heart begins to pound and her palms go sweaty as she jogs up the front steps, chest tightening.

 

It’s a note. With trembling hands, Clarke picks it up and reads it.

 

_Dear Caitlin,_

_My father sold the bookstore today. I was going to tell you, but I didn’t want to. I thought that if I told you, it would only make things more real. I kept hoping that the bookstore wouldn’t sell, that_ _we would be forced to stay in Elysian Falls, and that I could stay with you._

 

_But I did not tell you. My parents were going to try to come up with a way to stay here — my_ _father was looking at a job at the car dealership — but when I came home, they already knew_ _about the newspaper. We have cousins in Sacramento, California, who have offered us a place_ _to stay until we get back on our feet. We are accepting their offer._

 

_Thank you for protecting me, even when I believed that I did not need to be protected. I do not_ _know my new address yet, but I will find you, Caitlin. This is not the last you will see of me. But_ _until then, please read_ Jane Eyre _and think of me, as I will read_ The Great Gatsby _and think of_ _you._

 

_You have changed my life for the better, Caitlin Gallagher. You showed me love, acceptance,_ _and bravery in so many ways. I never found the courage to tell you this in person, but with_ _my pen as my sword, I can tell you now: I love you. And I am sorry that I never found it in_ _myself to look you in the eyes and say it._

 

_I know your address. I will write to you, and hopefully you will write back. If you decide not to,_ _so be it. But know that you have changed me._

_I love you. (There, I’ve said it twice.) May we meet again._

 

_-Anneliese_

 

∞

Anneliese never writes. Clarke never sees the German girl with the wild brown curls again. Does she die alone? Loved? Does she marry? Remain single?

 

Clarke never finds out. She never gets to learn these things. She marries a boy with brown curls like Anneliese’s, but he never compares to her. And so she is alone but not alone, dead yet alive, until the day her heart stops beating.

 

She keeps the letter in her pocket and reads it every day. And she is holding it when she dies, her eyes hovering over the last line. _May we meet again._


	7. seven

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I apologize that it has been so long since my last update. Exams and various projects have gotten the best of me, so I'm sorry for that. Thankfully, things are beginning to wind down with school, so I should be able to write more.
> 
> Please don't hate me for this chapter. Only two more chapters of angst and then we get a happy ending, I swear. I apologize in advance for any tears caused by this chapter. I cried three times writing it. Clexa turns me into an emotional wreck man.
> 
> As always, thank you for reading and thank you for your continued support. You all inspire me to write every day, even when I have awful writer's block haha. So thank you for that!
> 
> xo,  
> L

_seven._

"Casey Gable, it’s a pleasure to meet you,” booms the loud man. He is short and rotund, with a bald patch the size of the Ark, but he sports a warm grin and a laugh that comes from his chest; it makes Clarke think of her father, who chuckled the same way, heartily and uncontrollably.

 

As the man said moments ago, she is Casey Gable in this life. Twenty-two, blonde-haired and blue-eyed as always, although a bit taller now(she stopped at 5 feet 6 inches when she was sixteen, and was so proud of this fact that she took at least fifty Polaroids of the little notch on her door). Born in Virginia, raised in Florida, she’d moved to Los Angeles in 1980 to attend UCLA. Four years later, here she was, on the cusp of twenty-three and with a degree in journalism in her hot little hands. Now, she’s at her first day at her first job: an investigative journalist for the _LA Daily_ , a gig she’d only obtained thanks to her minor in sociology and a shortage of charming young blondes in the city (just kidding; there was never a shortage of those in LA). 

 

This is the first life where she’d been able to attend college, and while it was a blur of hard work and the occasional breakdown (Casey Gable was _not_ about socializing, and subsequently, her idea of a party was a textbook on her desk and a cup of green tea in her hands), Clarke had enjoyed it. She’s curious to see where this little job will land her; Casey’s ultimate goal is a position with the _Los Angeles Times_ , but it’s a big goal for a non-native without much experience. Trying to do investigative journalism at the _LA Times_ without decades of LA life under her belt would be suicide; the locals would view her as intrusive and fake, and that’s the last thing Clarke wants.

 

“The pleasure is all mine,” Clarke winks, and the man laughs even louder. He’s not the man who hired her, but she has a feeling he’s the boss around here; everyone seems to go silent when he’s around, which just makes his laughter echo through the room that much more.

 

They stop at a tiny cubicle in the back of the room, far away from the other employees. A shiny brass nameplate reads “CASEY GABLE; INVESTIGATIVE JOURNALISM”, and Clarke smiles proudly. She’s never had a nameplate before. She giggles to herself as she wonders what her own nameplate would say. “CLARKE GRIFFIN; WANHEDA/ANGEL OF DEATH,” probably, and suddenly, remembering that she’s known as a murderer doesn’t make it so funny anymore.

 

Her boss takes her slight frown as directed at him. “What, kid, not fancy enough for ya?” he says. It’s meant to be seen as jokingly, but Clarke can detect a slight undercurrent of bitterness in his voice; she gets the feeling that the _LA Daily_ hasn’t been doing so well, and maybe this is the best they can do for a novice journalist.

 

“No, no, it’s perfect,” she assures him. “I love the nameplate. I’ve never had one of those before.” It’s true, and Clarke gets a little buzz of satisfaction when her compliment makes the man grin widely. She hasn’t made someone smile in a long time. 

 

“Well, Wren should have your first assignment for you, then. I’ve got work to do. Nice to meet ya, Casey Gables.” The man shakes her hand, and as he walks away, Clarke realizes she never caught his name. She makes a mental note to ask Wren — whoever that is.

 

She doesn’t have to wonder for long. There’s a tap on her shoulder, and Clarke whips around (ever since Mount Weather, she only likes being touched when it’s Lexa who’s touching her) to find a petite, dark-haired girl with tan skin and a challenging smirk facing her. Her heart bursts; it’s Raven. _Hilarious that she’d have a bird-themed name again,_ Clarke thinks. 

 

“Wren Westcott,” the girl says. “I got the feeling that you’re Casey Gable, aren’t you?” Clarke nods. “Good,” Wren continues. “As the boss man already told you, I have your first assignment for you.” They walk over to Wren’s cubicle, which is the closest to Casey’s, but still relatively far away. Clarke kind of likes the idea of solitude here, though. It’s relaxing, to not have to worry about others’ needs and just focus on her job and what she needs to do for herself. She doesn’t get that luxury at Camp Jaha.

 

“Speaking of ‘the boss man,’ what’s his name?” Clarke asks, lowering her voice. “I never got to ask.”

 

Wren throws back her head and laughs; it’s a pretty sound, and one that Clarke doesn’t get to hear enough from Raven. “Nice job,” she snorts. “Forgot to ask the boss what his name was on the first day. You’ll do great here, Casey.” Wren throws a large manila folder into her hands, pats her on the back, and walks away. 

 

_Well, shit. I’m probably never going to get the boss’s name, am I?_

 

∞

It’s easy to love her new job, even with all the work it demands. Clarke’s used to being a hard worker; Clara put that in her soul, and it hasn’t left since. She’s been taking care of the people she loves since the Middle Ages; she’s just glad that in this lifetime, it’s _herself_ that gets to be taken care of. For now, there aren’t any siblings to worry over or any juvenile delinquents to protect. She’s become friends with Wren, but Raven’s reincarnation has a stable home life. All that Clarke has to stress about is paying her rent; she’s thinking she might have to find a roommate, because the rate for a tiny apartment in Los Angeles is ridiculously high.

 

The first month of the job is wonderful. Perfect, Clarke could even dare to say. She and Wren have developed a fast and easy friendship; they take lunch breaks together if Wren’s not out on an assignment, and the 9-5 workday isn’t half as bad as the perpetual workday she seems to have at Camp Jaha. Keeping an entire nation alive really is a full-time job.

 

It’s her fifth week on the job when things go awry. Wren hands her another manila folder, much like on her first day, but this time her friend is sporting a grimace, not a smirk. Clarke’s instantly worried; it’s not like Wren to look so anxious. She rips open the folder and scans it as quickly as possible when she gets back to her desk, and then she realizes why Wren seemed so upset.

 

Her new assignment is not quite as easy as the first. Now, she’s reporting on LA’s drug scene — particularly, the selling of hard drugs, such as cocaine, at nightclubs. And she has a contact, someone she’s supposed to meet up with once a week to get details from. They don’t tell her his real name, only that he goes by Tit. _Tit. Really? What kind of a nickname is that?_ Clarke thinks.

 

Of course, the moment she and Wren head out to lunch — today, they’re stopping by a little hole-in-the-wall owned by a Mexican family who make the best tacos in California (at least, according to Wren) — Clarke has to ask. Wren’s only been sitting down for all of five seconds when the words come tumbling out of Clarke’s mouth. 

 

“So, who’s Tit? And what the hell kind of nickname is that, anyway?”

 

Wren freezes. She carefully places her taco back on her little paper plate, staring wistfully at it for a moment before she answers Clarke. “Tit is the _LA Daily_ ’s contact. He’s been working for us for a year or so now. Maybe longer than that, I don’t know; I only joined a year ago. We pay him a couple hundred a month and keep him anonymous, he tells us everything and anything we wanna know. And as for why he’s called Tit… Well, that’s something you’ll have to ask him yourself.”

 

Clarke’s brow furrows. She hasn’t touched her plate, and she probably won’t until she gets an idea of just how dangerous this is going to be. “But he isn’t a safety issue, right?” she says slowly. “I mean, I won’t get shot for talking to him, will I?”

 

Wren shrugs. “Investigative journalism isn’t always a career you can call home and tell Mom and Pop about, you know,” she replies, words now muffled by a mouth full of taco. “If you wanted a job without risk, you should’ve gone into accounting.” 

 

Clarke rolls her eyes. “I know that, Wren. I just don’t want to go home and figure out that I’m being followed by a bunch of beefy guys in a van, okay? Talking to drug dealers wasn’t exactly in my contract,” she adds.

 

Wren takes a long sip of her water glass and swallows loudly. “Look, Casey. If you don’t think you’ll be safe, then offer the assignment to someone else,” she says. “But this guy… He’s given us a lot of great stories. Hell, you might even get a Pulitzer out of him. Don’t underestimate the power of a seedy drug dealer.” Wren’s eyes soften. “And, hey, if you ever feel unsafe… Gimme a call. I’ll beat his ass up.” She glances down at her leg, which is covered with a brace; apparently, Wren had a childhood accident that has rendered her crippled in her right leg for fifteen years. “Well, on second thought, just call the police,” Wren smirks. Clarke can’t help but laugh at that one.

 

She meets with her contact that night at Club Dragon, quite possibly the sketchiest place Clarke’s ever seen in her life. Casey’s soul sure is nervous about it; her heart’s practically banging against her ribcage. The instructions in the folder said to wear club attire, so she wouldn’t seem out of place, but nothing so fancy that it would attract too much attention. Clarke went with the only skirt in her closet, a slightly-wrinkled black mini, a silver belt, and a white bustier top that’s a _little_ too tight for her liking. She desperately wishes she could’ve just shown up in jeans and a T-shirt; her and 1980s fashion don’t seem to mix all that well. 

 

Clarke gets there at ten o’clock, which should be fairly early for the clubbing scene, but loud music is already pulsing so loud that she can hear it from the street, and a swarm of glittered, crimped-haired bodies come in and out of the club in a constant stream of activity. She swears she can feel the music thumping under her feet. The bodyguard eyes her suspiciously, like he doesn’t believe she’s actually over eighteen (it’s true; she has a young face), but it only takes a flash of her license and a stamp on her hand, and Clarke’s in.

 

She quickly discovers that nightclubs are a hungry, overwhelming thing. It reminds her of what Lexa had said to her so long ago, after she’d killed Finn: _“The dead are gone, Clarke. The living are hungry._ ” In this case, it looks like the living are hungry for cocaine and tequila. In the five minutes that Clarke’s been searching this place for her contact, she’s seen six different people buying some kind of drug from various hooded figures. This is _not_ a place where Casey Gable wants to be, and Clarke has to agree. She’ll spend thirty minutes, max, with Tit, and then she’s out of here and back to her apartment, where she’ll curl up in bed with a book and maybe take a nice, warm bath. Somehow, though, Clarke has a feeling that a million baths won’t wash away the dirty feeling Club Dragon has given her.

 

She finds Tit tucked away in the darkest corner of the club, where the remnants of the lights from the dance floor just barely enable her to see the dime-a-dozen mermaid tattoo that Wren said he’d have. Clarke approaches him slowly and cautiously, and chooses every word carefully. A voice in the back of her mind has in her constant fear that her informant will suddenly pull a gun on her and end this lifetime for good.

 

She finds out that Tit was given his nickname after a crazy night of doing cocaine off a stripper’s breast — or so he claims. Clarke suspects that it’s actually just a shortened version of his real name or a longer nickname, and it makes her shiver because “Tit” reminds her so much of “Titus”, even if it doesn’t sound the same. 

 

The first few weeks of meeting with Tit produce nothing interesting. She gets to hear a few fun stories about clients who purchased too much from him and did something extraordinarily crazy, but that’s not magazine-worthy. The stories are barely even worth re-telling to Wren, even though her friend eats them up more eagerly than her favorite tacos. Clarke has to wonder if she’s hit rock bottom in her career already. The only story she’s got right now is a piece on why the LAPD didn’t respond immediately to a woman who called to say her cat was stuck in a tree — and she _highly_ doubts that will ever see the light of day.

 

But the fourth week proves interesting. When Clarke walks up to the corner in the back of the room at Ventura Five (it’s a different club each week, but they always meet in the darkest corner), she sees that there’s two figures waiting for her, not just one. She freezes for a moment; what if this is a hit? What if Tit has decided she’s not worth the effort and has decided to kill her off? What if she’s going to get robbed?

 

But there’s a little tug in her heart. Something in her _knows_. And so she keeps moving forward.

 

“I brought my girl with me tonight,” Tit says the moment she walks up. He jerks a thumb at the figure next to him; Clarke can barely make out her features in the poor lighting, but she doesn’t need to strain her eyes; her soul can already tell her who this is. It’s _Lexa_ , and Clarke’s heart surges, but only for a second, because then she reminds herself: this girl is associated with Tit, one of the most notorious drug dealers on the Los Angeles club scene. She _can’t_ be good news. And Casey’s soul tells her that this girl will only get her into trouble, to walk away and come back another time. But Clarke knows she doesn’t have a choice.

 

The scent of lavender wafts over and hits Clarke like a Mack truck. She coughs, lungs suddenly struggling for air, and someone pats her back, making sure she’s okay. Clarke looks up and sees that it’s Tit’s girlfriend, her soulmate, whatever her name is here. Tit looks slightly irritated. “You done hacking up a lung?” he asks gruffly.

 

Clarke nods, croaking, “Thank you,” in the general direction of his girlfriend. Lexa’s reincarnation steps slightly closer, and Clarke can just make out a hint of a smile on her features.

 

“Of course,” the other girl says softly. She’s barely legible over the thumping music of the club, but months spent with Lexa has taught Clarke how to hear even the quietest of people. 

 

“It’s nice to meet you,” Clarke grins, sticking her hand out. Tit eyes them warily as her soulmate shakes her hand. She’s got a nice, firm handshake, just like Lexa’s. “I’m Casey Gable,” she adds, against all better judgment.

 

“Alicia White,” her soulmate responds, and while Clarke is grateful to know her name, she gets the feeling it was a bad idea on the other girl’s part, as Tit glares at her and mutters something about being stupid.

 

Obviously concerned about Alicia’s inability to keep a secret, Tit sends her over to the bar while he chats with Clarke. She keeps getting distracted, her eyes flicking over to where Alicia’s sitting, but thankfully, Tit doesn’t notice. Clarke doesn’t know what a guy like him would do to a girl like her during this time period. Hell, even in her time, it’d probably be a little risky to show open interest in a guy’s girlfriend like that.

 

Unfortunately, the night where she is most distracted is the night when Tit has the most interesting news of all. He tells Clarke about the vast amount of celebrities he’s sold drugs to in the past few weeks, and how many of them have been underage. This gives her an idea; perhaps she could write a story addressing the underage nightclub problem, particularly with drugs and alcohol. This might actually be suitable for the _LA Daily_ , and for once, Clarke feels like she isn’t stuck in a rut. If she didn’t know that he had a gun tucked beneath his waistband, she’d totally hug Tit right now.

 

The story takes months of research, but Clarke is completely willing. She’s never been so intrigued in a job, and this is certainly interesting stuff, even if it is a little disturbing. What’s more disturbing, though, is the way that Tit treats Alicia. He brings her along only a few more times after their first encounter, but it’s enough to make it clear that Clarke’s soulmate and her informant have a very abusive relationship. From what she’s seen, Alicia is nothing but sweet, perhaps accidentally dragged into the world of dealing (although she doesn’t appear to be a dealer herself), whereas Tit is cruel, lashing out at his girlfriend if he thinks she’s done a single thing wrong.

 

It bothers Clarke, and she so very, very badly wants to sweep away her soulmate from it all. But it’s harder to get to know Alicia than it’s been with Anneliese, Amelia, and all the other previous reincarnations. If she’s around Clarke for longer than five seconds, Tit sends her away, and Clarke suspects that asking for the girl’s number would only infuriate her contact and possibly ruin the deal he has with the magazine. So she plays it safe. But she knows that the moment this story is over, she’s going to cut off Tit, hand him over to another reporter at the _Daily_ , and try to help Alicia — because it’s killing her to think that her soulmate could be abused like this, even though Tit has only seemed verbally abusive so far (but that’s bad enough).

 

As she works to finish the story, Wren becomes more and more motherly with her, a side of Raven’s soul that Clarke never really got to see at Camp Jaha. Her friend always makes sure to ask how she is, if Tit is being nice to her, if she’d rather work on something else, if she feels safe, and Clarke appreciates it more than words can say. She hasn’t had someone truly look out for her since Lexa, and she’s missed it so much. Sometimes, she’d like to take a break from being Clarke Griffin and just be able to feel _safe_ , protected, guarded — and that’s a feeling that Camp Jaha never offers.

 

The week that she’s on her final page of the story, trying to nail the ending, Tit doesn’t show up for their meeting. Clarke’s confused at first; did she get the club wrong? Did he just forget? But no, she knows that Tit is always careful to ensure he’s correct, and a guy like him doesn’t forget things like this. So then she begins to worry; has he been hurt? Kidnapped? Killed, even? And if so, how far does that damage extend? Could something have happened to Alicia?

 

It’s hard not to stress about it, but in a way, the pain in her chest isn’t as awful as it’s been in her past lifetimes; she barely interacted with her soulmate this time around, and if something _has_ happened to Alicia, Clarke knows she’ll be waiting for her in another lifetime. And she’s done this plenty of times now; she’s lost her soulmate, what, six times? It will hurt, but she’ll survive, she reminds herself.

 

She gets together with Tit a few days after he missed their meeting. He’d sent a note to the _Daily_ explaining that he’d had an emergency deal with a big client and couldn’t make it that night. It sounded a little fishy to Clarke, but she’d let it pass, deciding it wasn’t worth it to worry. Alicia is with him that night, but Clarke swears she can make out a hint of a bruise on her soulmate’s cheek. It infuriates her, and brings on flashbacks of Anneliese’s black and blue arms, but Clarke takes a deep breath and tries to calm down. She has more important things to do right now than worry over a girl who will probably be dead the moment she begins to love her.

 

“I wanted to come and thank you for all your help, Tit,” Clarke says. “You’ve really been a great asset to the paper. Of course, I know the _LA Daily_ would still love to keep you as a contact, but it looks like for now, this will be my last meeting with you.” 

 

Tit snorts. “Tell you what, I’ll buy us a drink or two, on me. You’re a little uptight, and I think you need to loosen the fuck up.” Clarke blushes and mumbles something about not drinking on the job, but Tit ignores her and heads off to the bar anyway, leaving her with Alicia.

 

This is the perfect opportunity to ask about that bruise on her cheek, Clarke realizes. She clears her throat and leans in closer to Alicia. “Hey, um, are you okay? Because if you’re not… I can get you help,” she murmurs.

 

Alicia shifts uncomfortably next to her. “I’m fine,” she mutters, but it doesn’t sound very convincing.

 

“You don’t have to stay with him,” Clarke says, watching as Tit ambles over to the bartender. She can feel Alicia flinch. There’s silence for a few moments, and then this:

 

“I don’t want to.”

 

“So get out.”

 

“I can’t. I don’t have anywhere to go.”

 

Clarke’s fingers dip into her pocket and brush against her business card, and she hesitates only for a second before handing it to Alicia. “Take a few days,” she tells the other girl. “Pack your bags. Prepare yourself. And when you’re ready, call me. Don’t worry about the time; it’s my work number, but I pretty much live there when I’m writing a story, anyway. And you can come stay with me. I have an apartment, it’s not that great, but it’s better than living with someone who hits you for saying no.”

 

Alicia takes the card and slips it into her bra (the purse is probably something that Tit searches), but doesn’t get the opportunity to respond before Tit comes back with their drinks. As Clarke sips on her vodka soda, she can only pray that her soulmate will do the smart thing, the right thing, and let Clarke save her. 

 

∞

The call comes two days later. It’s three in the morning on a Tuesday, and Clarke is staring at her typewriter blankly, the harsh glow of the artificial lights above making her eyes water. She’s been up for nearly twenty-four hours now, running on cases of Tab and pure willpower, but even though she’s grasping at the last dregs of caffeine-fueled energy, the story has to be finished. Her editor wants it on his desk by six o’clock Wednesday evening — little Jimmy has a ball game at seven, so _of course_ he needs it an hour earlier than usual — and Clarke’s still struggling with the last paragraph, and there are still revisions to be done, peer reviews and final edits, and she knows damn well that if she’s not up as long as humanly possible, this story will never see the light of day.

 

But the call comes, and Clarke’s tired eyes automatically glance over at the phone. Even though she’s so exhausted she can barely remember her own name, she still answers with surprisingly quick reflexes, thanks to the little tug in her soul she gets whenever something Lexa-related is near.

 

“This is Casey,” she says, but she’s cut off by a broken sob on the other line. The sound sends shards of glass into Clarke’s heart. “Hello?” she prompts, more softly this time, trying to make her voice as gentle as possible for the obviously-terrified caller.

 

“It’s Alicia,” a voice whimpers, and Clarke could cry with relief right now if her soulmate didn’t sound so fucking _scared_. “I’m—I’m outside the building, I’ve got my stuff with me, but they’re looking for me, okay? And I—I need to be let in. _Please_. Before they find me.” 

 

“You’re outside the _LA Daily_?” Clarke asks, surprised.

 

“Yes.” The reply comes as a whisper, small and fearful, like Alicia’s trying to make herself as tiny as possible, starting with her voice.

 

“I’m coming to get you. Don’t move.” Clarke hangs up, barely remembering to grab her badge so she can let them back in, before she runs down the stairs at a rate that would make her old high school track coach proud.

 

Sure enough, when Clarke bursts out the doors, Alicia is standing there, shivering and holding a dirty duffel bag. There’s a cut on her cheek and dark circles under her eyes, and it makes Clarke’s blood boil, because she knows Tit did that to her soulmate. She doesn’t even have to guess or wonder about it;the raging fury from Casey’s soul tells her everything she needs to know about that.

 

Clarke puts her arm around the other girl and leads her to the building, both of them flinching when they hear the dull purring of a car engine somewhere nearby. Clarke fumbles for her badge and hastily swipes them in, the two of them ducking into the comforting darkness of the building as headlights pull up outside. They crouch next to the stairs, hidden in a corner where they can’t be seen through the doors, lavender in Clarke’s lungs and fear written all over Alicia’s features, even when there’s no light to illuminate them. There is terror in every part of her, in the way she clutches at Clarke’s hand and how her breathing catches when she hears the slightest of sounds, the quiet tears that drip onto Clarke’s sweatshirt and the freezing cold of Alicia’s fingers.

 

The headlights go away after a few minutes, but it feels like an eternity to Clarke, and probably even longer for the girl trembling next to her. When they both think it’s safe — Clarke declaring this by saying that they’re probably gone, and Alicia agreeing with her in the slow steadying of her breaths — Clarke leads them up the stairs, quickly and quietly, Alicia holding onto her tightly the whole time.

 

She steals Wren’s chair from her desk (oh, lucky Wren; she’s probably sleeping soundly at home right now, stomach full of $1 tacos) and places it directly next to her own, offering Alicia a seat. She takes it, and Clarke settles back into her own chair, fingers hovering over the typewriter but mouth desperate to open and ask more questions.

 

She tries to work in silence, Alicia’s quiet breathing the only sound around her, but she can’t get anything done, not with all the questions running through her mind. So finally, she cracks.

 

“So you walked to the _Daily_?” 

 

Alicia nods. “It was too dangerous to try to get a ride or a taxi,” she says, pausing for a moment to let out a yawn. Clarke can sympathize with that. “My boyfriend — well, I guess my ex-boyfriend now… he has a lot of contacts around the city. Who knows how many of them are taxi drivers?” Clarke thinks that might be an attempt at the joke, judging by the small smile on Alicia’s face, so she shares a grin of her own. 

 

“So he’s threatened you?” Clarke asks.

 

“Multiple times.” 

 

And then suddenly, Clarke gets an idea. “If he wants to maintain his paid contract with the _LA Daily_ , he won’t be doing that anymore,” she promises. 

 

She’s going to keep her soulmate safe this time. And that’s a vow.

 

∞

Alicia is like her own personal muse. Somehow, with her soulmate by her side, Clarke finishes the story in thirty minutes, and sets it aside for Wren to review later. By 4:30, they’re back at Clarke’s apartment, Clarke preparing her bedroom for Alicia to sleep in while simultaneously attempting to find a comfy pillow and blanket for her couch, where she’s planning on sleeping. It probably won’t be super comfortable, but hell, it’s not like she was going to get much sleep anyway, right? She’s still half hyped up on that six-pack of Tab from a few hours ago.

 

Alicia, sweetheart that she is, seems apprehensive about sleeping in Clarke’s bed. She tries to insist that _she’ll_ sleep on the couch and that it’s Clarke’s right to sleep in her own bed, especially when she’s being so generous as to share her apartment with her, but Clarke’s not having any of it. She gets Alicia settled in bed, turns up the heat so the girl won’t shiver quite as badly, and has just curled up on the couch when she hears a voice calling for her.

 

“Casey? Can you — never mind.” It’s Alicia, her voice coming out meek and soft, and she trails off at the end like she regrets ever calling for Clarke. But Clarke gets up and pads back into her room anyway. She knows Lexa’s soul well enough that she remembers how her soulmate will do this, from time to time: start saying something that she means or asking for something that she wants, only to take it back as soon as she realizes it’s a bad idea. That habit is the very reason why they never got to say “I love you” before Lexa’s death, and the fact that Clarke never had the courage to say it first is one of the regrets that still haunts her thoughts.

 

Alicia is curled up under Clarke’s blankets, looking small and impossibly fragile for a girl whose soul will later go on to become a Commander of 12 clans on an irradiated planet. Alicia represents Lexa at her most vulnerable, Clarke believes. After how shut off and private Anneliese was, perhaps Lexa’s soul decided that being sweet and open would be a better idea, and hence, Alicia. It’s nice to see her soulmate be open like this; obviously, being Lexa at her core, Alicia still tries to hide her emotions as best as she can if she thinks it’s for the good of those around her, but she’s far easier to read than Lexa was, and Clarke appreciates that. It’s not a constant guessing game with Alicia, she’s realized. With Lexa, it was always guessing and choosing the most plausible answer: _does she think I’d actually ever try to hurt her? No, she can probably see right through me. Does she respect me? No, she probably thinks I’m a coward. Does she love me? No, she probably hates me._ With Alicia, the answer can be found right on her face or in her body language, and it’s so much easier than the mind games Clarke played with herself when she had Lexa.

 

“I’m sorry, Casey,” Alicia whispers. “Please go back to bed.”

 

Clarke laughs; she can’t help it. She’s never seen one of Lexa’s reincarnations be so _apologetic_. Yes, Lexa apologized when she felt it was necessary, but she didn’t apologize for the little things like Alicia’s doing right now.

 

“You have nothing to apologize for," she tells her soulmate. “What did you need?” 

 

Alicia hesitates, but through the dim glow of the nightlight (Clarke’s soul always calls for some source of light in a room since she met Lexa; it’s like the candle obsession passed straight on to her), Clarke can tell that she’s blushing a little. “I can’t really fall asleep,” she mumbles. “And when I can’t fall asleep… This is going to sound stupid, but I just fall asleep so much easier when people are talking to me.” 

 

Clarke’s heart shatters a little (Alicia sounds so lonely, so desperate for a friend), but she forces on a smile anyway. “Yeah, of course. My best friend is like that, too.” (This is partially true — when Wren gets drunk, she gets sleepy and demands “storytime” before her head hits the pillow.)

 

Alicia smiles softly. “What’s she like?” 

 

“My best friend?”

 

“Yes.”

 

Clarke thinks for a moment, trying to figure out how to describe her — and who to describe, Wren or Raven. She decides to go with Wren, for fear that describing Raven will somehow screw with the timeline. “Well, she’s really funny,” Clarke begins, “and she’s been through a lot. More than you would think she’s been through, just from looking at her. She’s got a leg brace from falling off a horse the wrong way when she was seven, but she never lets it stop her from doing anything. She’s the most confident person I’ve ever met; she’s always so sure of herself and the decisions that she makes. She also has a very passionate relationship with food. She loves $1 Taco Tuesday at King Taco, but she’s such a loyal customer that they’ll give her $1 tacos any day of the week; I think she just likes Taco Tuesday because then she doesn’t feel guilty about the discount, because everyone else gets it too. She acts like she’s the toughest person around, but she’s really just a big softie inside. And she has a beautiful name… Wren. The name of a bird, but it fits her because nothing can stop her, nothing can impede her freedom. She’s always ready to take flight.”

 

Finished speaking, Clarke looks down at Alicia, only to see that her soulmate has fallen asleep and is snoring lightly. She can’t help but chuckle at that; it’s an awfully cute sight. And as Clarke tries to welcome sleep that night, it’s remembering that sight of Alicia that helps her mind fall into darkness.

 

∞

Clarke’s alarm goes off at 8:00, but when she pads into her bedroom that morning to grab a fresh pair of jeans and a T-shirt, she sees Alicia, still curled up in her bed, and knows that she can’t possibly leave the girl alone here today. So she calls the _LA Daily_ ; naturally, Wren is already at her desk and grumpy, thanks to a lack of normally-Clarke-provided coffee. She picks up on the first ring.

 

“Gable! You ever coming into work today?” Wren asks jokingly. “I’m missing my daily caffeine!”

 

Normally, Clarke would laugh at that, but the craziness of the situation she’s gotten herself into is really just starting to hit her, and she suddenly feels far too stressed for joking. “I’m sorry, Wren,” she sighs, balancing the receiver on her shoulder as she reaches to her left for a notepad and pen, “but I’m not coming in today.” The wire of the kitchen phone she’s on isn’t very happy about that, and Clarke sighs exasperatedly as it refuses to stretch any further. 

 

Clarke can practically hear Wren’s brows furrowing on the other line. “Seriously? Casey, I’ve seen you come in with a fever before, and _I_ had to send you home. I don’t think you’ve ever missed a day of work. Is everything okay?”

 

“Yes,” she lies. “Everything’s great. I finished the story early this morning and left it on my desk for revisions. Could you maybe just fax any edits to me?”

 

“Our fax machine is broken, remember?” Wren reminds her.

 

Clarke curses under her breath. “Okay, then could you meet me at my place during your lunch break?” she pleads. “I know I’m asking a lot, and I feel awful that you might have to miss Taco Tuesday, but I’m really in a bind here, Wren.”

 

“You can’t leave the house?” Wren asks, clearly puzzled.

 

“No. I can’t.” Clarke wraps the wire around her finger until it turns white, nervously waiting for a response.

 

Finally, Wren sighs. “Okay, Gable. You’ve got it. I’ll be at your place at twelve o’clock sharp. And if you’re not home, you can bet your ass will be buying me three meals’ worth of $1 tacos next Tuesday.” She hangs up before Clarke gets the chance to thank her, and Clarke knows her best friend is mad (she always gets like this; she’d rather be angry than show that she’s worried), but she has no choice. She doesn’t know if Tit’s guys followed her and Alicia here last night, she doesn’t know if Alicia will have a panic attack the second Clarke tries to leave the house, she doesn’t even know for sure if anyone saw them going into the _Daily_ this morning.

 

But Clarke knows that she has to protect Alicia. She’ll never be able to forgive herself if she lets her soulmate get hurt again. Alicia cannot suffer the fate that was dealt to Lexa, nor can she encounter the ending that Alainne got. Clarke won’t allow her soulmate to die in front of her again. 

 

On the notepad, Clarke jots down “ _Wren at 12:00_ ” and everything she’ll need to ask her best friend. This probably won’t be the most pleasant lunch date they’ve had, but there are far worse lunch dates in their future if Tit gets his hands on Alicia again. 

 

Just as Clarke finishes writing, she hears the soft sounds of feet on tile. She turns around to see Alicia standing there, the most beautiful thing Clarke ever has and ever will laid eyes on, even fresh out of bed. Every little detail of Alicia’s appearance right now — the messy, tousled curls; the bright green eyes, only slightly dulled by sleep; the soft, gentle smile — makes her think of how Lexa looked after they made love, and it makes Clarke’s heart hurt so badly she wonders how she can even stand it. Alicia is sweet and pure and wonderful, and Casey loves her more than anything, but Clarke’s soul needs Lexa to be complete. Clarke needs her _heda_ , and at this point, she doesn’t know if she’ll ever get her back. 

 

“Good morning,” Alicia says.

 

“Good morning,” Clarke breathes, and it feels like there’s a ton of bricks sitting on her chest. She doesn’t know what to say to the girl standing in her kitchen. There are a million things she could say, and a million more she _wants_ to say, but she knows nothing that she _should_ say. So she stands there and stares like a fool, her eyes automatically devouring every detail of her soulmate that they can get. And it probably looks creepy, Clarke knows that, but every time she was around Lexa she just got so _breathless_ , and Alicia looks so much like her right now that it’s rendering her speechless. She hates it, she does, but she’s at a loss as to what she should do.

 

Thankfully, the growling of Alicia’s stomach interrupts the strange silence. Alicia blushes and wraps her arms around her waist, trying to act like it didn’t happen, but Clarke’s already opening the refrigerator and getting out some food. Clarke hasn’t eaten since Monday lunch with Wren, but judging by the way Tit treated her, she has to wonder how long it’s been since Alicia last ate.

 

“Casey,” Alicia says softly. “You don’t have to do that.” Clarke ignores her, pulling out her trusty frying pan, passed on from her grandmother when Clarke entered college, and grabbing the last two eggs in her fridge.

 

“Casey,” Alicia repeats, louder this time. When it doesn’t elicit a response from Clarke, she tries a final time: “ _Casey_.”

 

Finally, Clarke turns around and looks at her. She knows what Alicia is going to try to do, run off and be the sacrificial lamb or something dramatic like that, as Lexa’s soul is wont to do, but she’s not going to allow it. “Yes, Alicia?”

“You don’t need to make breakfast for me,” Alicia says. “I’m going to be leaving as soon as I make your bed and get my duffel packed.”

 

Clarke sighs; Alicia reacted to her kindness exactly as she’d thought she would. “Don’t be ridiculous. You’re my guest, okay? I want you here.” She emphasizes the last phrase, even though it sends painful memories coursing through her head, and Clarke has to squeeze her eyes shut for a second to combat the migraine that’s coming on at this. _I don’t want the next commander. I want you._

 

Alicia shakes her head. “I can’t, Casey. It’s not safe. I’m putting you in danger by being here. What if Tit finds out?” She’s chewing on her lip, and seeing how she so genuinely _cares_ makes Clarke ache even more.

 

Clarke steps closer to Alicia, catching her wrist in her hand as the other girl turns to go back to her bedroom. “Please, Alicia. Stay.” She’s begging now, and Clarke knows she must look so very stupid, but she’s past the point of caring. If Alicia goes back on the streets, Tit will have her dead in five seconds — there’s no doubt about that.

 

Alicia’s face softens, and Clarke can tell that she’s got her hooked — she’ll stay, maybe just for another night, but that’s all Clarke will need to convince her to move in with her, or to at least go get help from the police. “Okay,” she whispers. “I’ll stay.” A smile spreads across her features as she adds, “But I do need to go change. I’ve been in these clothes for 24 hours now, and I have a feeling they’re going to start to smell.”

 

Clarke laughs and lets her go, but when she turns back to the eggs, a tear falls and sizzles on the skillet. _Don’t leave me, Lexa._

 

∞

They eat breakfast together, sunlight streaming in through the kitchen window, and for once, if Clarke just shuts off her thoughts and pretends, they almost feel like a normal couple. Happy. Together. Stable. _Alive_ , just eating together in their little breakfast nook. 

 

But Clarke and Lexa have never been a normal couple, and Casey and Alicia are no different. After breakfast, Alicia insists on doing the dishes while Clarke tries to clean up the apartment a bit in anticipation of her meeting with Wren. She needs to go grocery shopping, but she’s scared to leave Alicia alone. She doesn’t want the other girl to slip out while she’s gone, nor does she want Tit to pay a surprise visit when she’s not there.

 

Wren comes by at 12 o’clock on the dot, just as promised. Alicia tucks herself away in Clarke’s bedroom with a book ( _The Great Gatsby_ , her favorite, she’d said; memories of Anneliese rush into Clarke’s mind) as Wren makes her grand entrance, immediately complaining about how hungry she is the second she walks through the door. Luckily for her, Clarke’s already made a grilled cheese and tomato soup — the last, meager remains of what she’d had in her pantry, but better than nothing. Wren on an empty stomach was Angry Wren, and Clarke would hate to try to negotiate with Angry Wren.

 

After Wren has finished devouring her food, she fixes Clarke with a stare of pure steel. “What’s going on, Casey? You need to tell me, now,” she demands. 

 

“Someone is staying with me,” Clarke admits, lowering her voice so Alicia won’t hear. “Tit’s ex-girlfriend. He was abusing her, so I offered her a place here. I didn’t think she was going to take it, but she found me at three this morning, at the _Daily_. Tit’s people… They were looking for her. I had to take her in, Wren.”

 

Wren’s gaping at her like she’s just announced a plan to bomb the White House. “Are you _crazy_? This is dangerous, Casey!” she hisses. “Tit could not only kill the girl, but he could kill you! He will ruin your _life_. Does he know?”

 

“Not yet,” Clarke mutters. 

 

“Well, I’m sure he’ll find out soon enough,” Wren snaps, leaning back in her chair and crossing her arms. “I can’t believe you. This girl must have had your fucking heart from day one, for you to do something like this.” She shakes her head, a slow smile spreading across her face. “Although I have to say, you have a decent chance at getting laid for something like this.”

 

“Oh, Jesus, Wren, that’s so insensitive.” Clarke rolls her eyes, but she can’t help but chuckle a little bit. “I have no intentions of getting laid. I just want to… I don’t know, protect her.”

 

Wren seems to thaw out even more at this. “What do you need me to do?” she asks, leaning forward on her elbows.

 

“I need you to bring us groceries,” Clarke says, counting off a list on her fingers. “I’ll give you the money, of course, I just don’t want to leave this apartment yet, it’s too risky. And I need you to tell the boss that I’ve got the flu and I won’t be in for a few days. And then… I need you to get a message to Tit.”

 

“ _Seriously_ , Casey? I can do all of that for you except the last thing, and I think you know why.” Wren’s scowling now.

 

“You can make it anonymous, Wren, I don’t care, just _please_ get this to him,” Clarke begs. Wren’s silent, which usually means she’s agreeing to something even though she doesn’t want to, so Clarke continues. “Tell him that if he ever bothers Alicia again, the _LA Daily_ will end his contract, effective immediately, and give all the information we have on him to the police.”

 

Wren raises a brow. “You really think that’s a good idea, Case? Won’t that just make him angry?” she questions.

 

Clarke shrugs. “I have no idea. But it’s worth a try. He has no idea where I live,” she reminds her friend. “And I’m not involved in the drug scene or the clubbing scene. So I don’t think there’s much he can really find out about me.”

 

Wren blows out a long breath. “Okay, Casey,” she says, and she sounds like she’s aged forty years in the span of a few minutes. “But don’t blame me if it goes wrong.”

 

∞

The deal with Wren works. Clarke has no idea how it’s gone so according to her plan, but it has. Just a few hours after sending the message, Wren calls her to let her know that Tit agreed to stop looking for Alicia. Apparently money is more important to him than getting back an ex, and Clarke is just happy that he’s given up. She still wants to be cautious for the next few days, just in case Tit’s people hadn’t received word yet of the unofficial cease-and-desist, but she feels like a huge weight has been lifted off her shoulders. That’s not a feeling she gets often.

 

She takes the time off from work to try to get to know Alicia as best she can. It turns out that the girl is quite the open book if Clarke just asks; she ends up learning everything she could want to know about her soulmate, good parts, bad parts and more. She’s disgusted to learn that Alicia didn’t feel any romantic attraction for Tit; she was friends with him at first, and then eventually forced into a relationship with him, and couldn’t leave for fear of being killed.

 

Alicia’s favorite color is blue. Her last name is Woods (White was a fake last name, given to her by Tit to prevent Alicia from "blowing their cover"). She grew up in Santa Monica. She was named after her father’s grandmother, who immigrated to the United States from Spain at age ten. Her parents died when she was younger in a car crash, and she’s lived on her own since she was sixteen. She wanted to go to Stanford as a little kid, but dropped out of high school as soon as she could because she needed to pay the rent for her own apartment. She met Tit through a friend of a friend at seventeen, and was coerced into dating him at eighteen. The abuse started on Alicia’s nineteenth birthday, and has been ever-present since.

 

Clarke wonders if it’s possible to fall for someone in a week, because by next Tuesday, Casey’s soul sings in Alicia’s presence, and Clarke knows that she is deeply, deeply in love with Alicia Woods. Normally, this would be the part when Clarke would start to freak out, would begin to panic about losing her soulmate, but she allows herself to relax. She has the feeling that she’ll get a little while longer.

 

She does not. She goes to work Wednesday morning, after receiving notice from Wren that their boss had threatened to fire the both of them if Clarke did not come back, and returns for lunch to find her apartment ransacked. Shattered glass glimmers on the floor; there’s blood smeared on corner of the kitchen table, where it looks like someone’s head might have smacked into it, and Clarke dry-heaves. 

 

Then she sees the note on the kitchen counter, and her stomach turns even more. She approaches it slowly, carefully, like it might jump out and attack her if she comes too close. Her body is screaming at her with every step she takes, telling her to turn back and dial 911 already, but Clarke has to know.

 

She picks up the note with shaking hands. It’s written in nice, neat handwriting that Clarke recognizes as Alicia’s own, but it was clearly done in a rush. She used the _LA Daily_ stationery that Clarke keeps around the apartment, just in case she ever needs to jot anything down or send a quick letter. Clarke tastes acid in her mouth as she reads the note.

 

_Casey,_

_They’re here. They are knocking on the front door as I write this. I don’t know what’s going to happen, but thank you. Thank you for saving me, and may we meet again._

_Yours,_

_Alicia_

 

She’s on the floor, screaming, before she knows it.

 

∞

The police come quickly. They bring an ambulance, and hurry Clarke over to the paramedics. They give her a blanket and water, and Clarke watches from the hallway as the LAPD sweep for fingerprints, photograph everything, and take the blood. They tell her she can’t stay in her apartment, that it’s an open crime scene, and so she calls Wren. Wren’s there in ten minutes, and Clarke wonders numbly how she got there so quickly, what with the Los Angeles traffic and all.

Wren tries to make her sleep in her bed, but Clarke refuses; Wren’s leg will ache if she tries to sleep on the couch, and she knows this. It doesn’t really matter, anyway, because Clarke cannot sleep that night. She stares at the ceiling until sunrise, and then rises to make herself a cup of coffee. She sits there, feeling too much and yet not feeling anything at all, until the phone call comes.

 

They want her down at the station, and Wren drives her there. Clarke can barely breathe when a homicide detective pulls her into a conference room and wheels in a portable TV. This might be hard to see, he tells her. But we need you to identify the people in this video for us. So we can be sure.

 

Clarke knows it will be bad when the video flickers on, and she can see Alicia sitting there, bound and gagged, like she’s a fucking _hostage_. Well, she is a hostage, Clarke reminds herself, but it’s still infuriating. She wants to reach through the screen and take her soulmate away from it all, to rescue her again. But she can’t, and it makes her want to die.

 

Another figure appears on the screen. Tit. He pulls out Alicia’s gag, and Clarke feels proud of her soulmate when she immediately spits on him. Tit slaps her, and then Clarke doesn’t feel proud anymore, she just feels angry. 

 

Tit faces the camera. “You thought you could threaten me about my contract and that it’d be all said and done, huh, Casey Gable?” He’s laughing, like it’s funny. “Stupid little bitch. As if I’d let you get away with that. Did you really think I stopped watching you? It wasn’t hard to find out where you lived. I let you feel safe, get comfortable, and then, when you left for work that morning… My boys came in and got Alicia. And here we are.” Clarke’s jaw aches from how she’s grinding her teeth so much, but then Tit turns to Alicia, and it gets worse.

 

“If you agree to take me back, this can all be over now, Leesh,” Tit says, stroking Alicia’s chin. Clarke’s blood is boiling. “Don’t be so difficult, baby.” 

 

“I will _never_ take you back,” Alicia bites out. “I would rather die.”

 

Tit shrugs. “Have it your way,” he says simply.

 

Clarke turns her head, because she knows what’s coming, but the gunshot will ring in her ears for the rest of her life, and it rings in her ears now, blocking out all the questions the detective is trying to ask her. _May we meet again,_ she repeats to herself, over and over, until it all blurs together into a single jumble of words. _May we meet again, may we meet again, maywemeetagainmaywemeetagainmaywemeetagain_ —

 

She passes out then and there, but even in unconsciousness, Clarke cries. For Alicia. For Lexa. For all the other lovers she’s lost and all the ones she will lose. For all the “May we meet agains” that are fulfilled and then taken away, with a bullet, with a sword, with a note. 

 

She is sick of losing people. But when Casey Gable dies ten years later, Clarke Griffin wakes up as another person, ready to lose again, because there is one thing she knows now: she may not have been able to save Alainne, or Amelia, or Alicia, but she will save Leksa kom trikru, even if it is with her dying breath. And that is not a promise; that is a certainty.


	8. eight

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I apologize for being absent from this story for so long. School caught up with me, I went off to a foreign language program, and truthfully, I also lost my muse for this work. It took me a while to come back to it, but I've finally finished Chapter Eight. Hopefully I'll have the last two chapters and the epilogue up by the end of January. Thank you for being patient.
> 
> Possible trigger warning for a man heckling and being kind of grabby with Clarke towards the end of the chapter. If that might upset you, please don't read.
> 
> This is by far my longest chapter for We Will Meet Again. I put a lot of time into it and tried to develop Clarke's friendships and the world around her in this lifetime more than I have in past chapters. I hope you enjoy.
> 
> much love to you all. as always, thank you for reading.  
> xoxo,  
> L

_eight._

Clarke’s soul does not experience the sense of impending loss again until 28 years later, in the year 2014. This reincarnation is a strange one, because she has the same name that she was born with on the Ark, albeit spelled differently: Clark Griffin. Clark has different parents than Clarke, but her father dies when Clark is sixteen, too.

 

It is not just her name that is strange, however — many of Clarke’s friends have shown up again in this lifetime. She meets Raven and Octavia, already best friends, at six during a soccer game; Jasper and Monty come along at eleven. Bellamy is ever-present in the background, more of an older brother figure than anything, still overprotective as ever of Octavia. He’s two years older than them, so it works out well. Lincoln and Octavia meet in middle school, and Clarke observes with a softened heart as their relationship evolves - - they’re in a committed relationship by sophomore year of high school.

 

Clarke watches them all as they grow up together, side by side. She gets to see them lose their teeth, she laughs with them as they encounter awkward crushes and many an after-school detention, she dries their tears when things go wrong and tends to their scrapes and bruises when life crashes down on them. And she learns to appreciate all the minute traits of their characters — how Octavia tries to be tough because she thinks she’s too weak, too sheltered, but what she doesn’t know is that she’s already so _strong_ ; the quiet genius of Raven, always working behind the scenes on some latest project, buying the cheapest chemicals she can find on Amazon and singeing off her eyebrows too many times to count; Jasper’s soft, emotional side, which he tries to keep so hidden with sarcasm and joking; sweet, sweet, Lincoln, expected to be the tough guy, but only able to truly try to hurt someone if it means protecting the ones he loves; and Monty bearing it all, shouldering all their burdens for them, everyone’s own personal confessional. Monty listens to it all, offers a warm hug and a joke when appropriate, and then carries on like what he’s heard hasn’t bothered him, even though Clarke knows it does, more than he’ll ever care to admit. 

 

It is bittersweet for her, because every time she sees their beautiful, smiling faces, Clarke is reminded of everything they will go through, for her, for Arkadia, sometimes for the “greater good” and sometimes for seemingly no reason at all. When Raven laughs, sometimes all Clarke can hear is her screams as Finn crumples in the arms of another girl. Jasper’s dark humor brings on flashbacks of his _truly_ darker self, exposed after Clarke killed the one he loved at Mount Weather. Monty smiles, and Clarke closes her eyes and sees the tears streaming down his cheeks when he believed his best friend had died, killed by a Grounder spear. Octavia’s giggles turn into gunshots in Clarke’s ears, running eyeliner from tears of laughter changing to trickles of blood. Lincoln’s eyes sparkle when he sees the people he loves, but all Clarke can think of is chains and poison.

 

Still, her friends make every moment gorgeous, even the sad ones, and Clarke is constantly reminded of why they were special enough to show up across so many lifetimes. Things are easier when she has them, though that doesn’t necessarily make life _easy_. Clarke’s soul is becoming weighed down; she can feel herself growing tired, tired of living with the memories, tired of wondering when she will lose Lexa next. She is not certain if her heart will be able to handle many more breaks; every death snaps another heartstring in two. Nightmares start to come when Clarke turns fifteen in this life; she dreams of factory fires and pointed pistols, of the slices of swords and spatters of blood on delicate hands. They always end in quiet devastation, whispers of “ _may we meet again_ ” that turn into silent screams. Raven and Octavia find out about them when they are sixteen and sleep over at Clarke’s house for her birthday; she wakes up at two in the morning, voice hoarse and tears streaming down her cheeks, and Raven tells her that she’s been shrieking something, the name of a girl. Clarke is worried for a moment that it will screw up the timeline, but the world does not shatter around them, and Octavia slips out to grab some tissues, which she uses to dab away at Clarke’s tears while Raven reminds them of funny stories from their childhoods. They don’t ask questions; they don’t try to pry or nag her for more details. They just hold her until she stops sniffling and she feels like she can talk again, and then they sneak downstairs and watch old home videos on the half-broken VHS player until the details of the nightmare are fuzzy and dull in Clarke’s mind.

 

And that’s probably the best thing about being best friends with Raven and Octavia. They don’t have to know every detail of Clarke’s pain to know that it is valid. They are just there for her, to hug her and dry her tears, to make her laugh and let her vent. They are _there_ , and Clarke appreciates it more than they’ll ever know. She can only hope that her love for them will not kill them, as it has done to Lexa too many times to count.

 

∞

The years race by, seemingly quicker than they ever have before, and it is September 2014, the first day of senior year, before Clarke even knows it. Octavia’s battered Chevy Trailblazer pulls up to her house at 7 AM, blasting music that surely irritates the crotchety old neighbors and full of the people she loves most (with Raven, Monty, and Jasper in the backseat, and Lincoln up front next to his girlfriend, that’s four passengers already, not counting Clarke, but the sheriff in their small, quiet town has never cared much about driving laws). Clarke kisses her mother bye and climbs into the backseat, squeezing in between Raven and Monty, who is insisting on playing The Weeknd, much to Lincoln’s great displeasure; he claims that the rapper is “far from respectful” of women (bless his heart, the sweet boy participates in bi-monthly feminist rallies with Octavia in DC, about forty-five minutes away from where they live, and not because he thinks it’ll get him brownie points). 

 

“Ready for the last first day, Griffin?” Raven grins, eyes bright and young. Clarke has never seen her so happy, and she fumbles for her camera in her bag; she’s taken up photography in this life, eager to capture every moment, especially the ones she doesn’t get to see too often, if at all, back at Camp Jaha. Her mother bought her a nice camera, a Canon Rebel T5, for her seventeenth birthday in January, and she’s been obsessed with it since, taking it everywhere she possibly can. Raven hates being photographed, Octavia too unless she’s with Lincoln (for someone who loves to be so tough, she eats up couples’ photos like nobody’s business), but Monty and Jasper adore hamming it up for the lens, and they all suck it up for the greater good of a happy Clarke.

 

Clarke snaps a picture, and Raven groans. “Really? Can’t even get your first word of the day out before you pull out the camera?” she whines. Clarke scrolls through her gallery and finds the picture, showing it to everyone in the backseat and handing it to Lincoln so he can look at it, too. Raven looks beautiful in the photo, all glowing skin and wild ponytail, and Clarke wishes she could take this photo with her to Camp Jaha and pin it up for everyone to see, so people will stop hurting Raven, because she _doesn’t fucking deserve it and it should be so obvious._

 

“It’s gorgeous, Raven,” Clarke tells her. “Thank you for letting me take it. And happy last first day, everyone.” Her friends cheer as Octavia pulls into the parking lot of Wells’s Donuts, their favorite breakfast haunt. It’s been tradition to stop by there every morning on the first day of school, and their last first day will be no exception. 

 

If the name didn’t make it obvious enough, Thelonious Jaha runs the place, named after his late son. Clarke’s heart still aches at the painful memories; when Clark was a child, she and Wells were the best of friends, possibly even closer than she was with Octavia and Raven at the time, but he was killed in a car accident when they were twelve. His mother died when Wells was born, so his father was all alone, and opened up the donut place to cope. A strange choice for a man who would become the leader of thousands of people in a later life, but Clarke admires it; she thinks it’s strong and sweet, and it brings happiness to its customers, so it’s the perfect ode to Wells, who lived to make others happy.

 

They all pile out of the car, Monty and Jasper jostling to be the first in line for the banana cream donuts, which Clarke thinks are disgusting but are, of course, the guys’ favorites. Clarke herself prefers plain glazed, while Raven sticks to chocolate, and Octavia and Lincoln always go for a few powdereds — but she’s pretty sure that’s probably because they just like to wipe the powder off of each other’s noses like the sickeningly adorable couple they are. Wells used to like the cake donuts with strawberry icing, and Clarke’s chest stings just a tiny bit every time she sees them, at the very front of the counter where Jaha always keeps them; they’re the signature donut of Wells’s Donuts, also known as the “Wells Special”.Maybe it’s because she never gets enough time with him in any life, and the donut is a reminder of how young they were when Wells died; every time they meet, he’s always taken away from her, too soon, too young, and Clarke will never get over it.

 

“Hey, guys,” Harper says, waving at them and re-tying her apron as they all walk in. Harper’s a year older than them, graduated last year and now goes to the community college twenty minutes away; she and Monty had a summer fling that ended a couple of weeks ago, and the way that Harper stares at the donuts like they’re the most interesting things in the world when she sees him lets Clarke know how the older girl feels about that.

 

“Morning, Harper,” Raven chirps. “Where’s Jaha?”

 

A shadow crosses Harper’s face. “It’s the first day. You know him — always gets sentimental on first days. I think today is particularly hard for him,” she tells them. Clarke’s heart gives a little squeeze; today would’ve been Wells’s last first day, too, and that’s of course even harder on his dad than it is on her.

 

“Ah.” Raven nods. “I don’t blame him. Anyway, it’ll be our usual — four banana creams, four powdereds, two glazed, and two chocolates, please.” She goes to pull out her wallet, but Clarke stops her, handing Harper a wad of her own cash. Ever since they started this when Bellamy got his license their freshman year, she’s tried to pay, and someone else has paid instead. But Clarke won’t let them do it this year; after four years, she has the total memorized, and she figures it’s about time to pay her way.

 

“Clark,” Raven groans, walking over to the back counter with her to grab some napkins. Monty and Jasper are messy eaters, so they’ll need plenty of them. “You’re an open book, ya know. I can read you so easily; that look on your face means you’re feeling guilty about something.”

 

“I’m not an open book, Raven, you’ve just been friends with me for too long,” Clarke retorts, and Raven cracks a smile at that, leaning against the counter to quickly fix her leg brace.

 

“Seriously, though, Griffin — what’s up?” her friend presses, and Clarke knows she has to be honest or face the consequences later, probably in the form of an embarrassing childhood photo posted to Instagram for all to see.

 

“It’s just the last first day, Rav, and I can’t stop thinking about Wells,” Clarke admits, busying herself with stacking the napkins in a neat pile (even though her friends will ruin it in mere seconds). “I’m getting to enjoy all these things — first day donuts, homecoming, prom, graduation — and he’s not. He’s gone, and I feel like it’s my fault. And I know Jaha is upset, because it’s not fair. I should be the one with a donut shop named after me. Not him.” Tears bead at the corner of her eyes, and Clarke accidentally tears a corner off a napkin in her hurry to distract herself from the feeling.

 

“Oh, _Clark_.” Raven’s hand is on her shoulder, rubbing slow, soothing circles into it, the way she does when Clarke has a nightmare. “It’s not your fault, you know that. How could you have predicted that he would run into the street after your soccer ball? Things like this just happen sometimes, babe, and they suck, but you have to forgive yourself. Everyone else already has; the only person with a grudge against you is, well, _you_.” 

 

Clarke swallows hard, willing herself not to break down in the middle of a donut shop on her freaking _last first day_. She doesn’t want to be pathetic, at least not right now. Maybe when she gets home, when she can turn on Netflix and drown her tears in _Parks and Recreation_ and a pint of Ben  & Jerry’s. But not now; everyone is watching, and she has to be okay for them. She has to.

 

“Thanks, Raven,” she murmurs, throwing the shredded napkin in the trash and gathering the rest in her arms.

 

“Anytime, Griffin,” her best friend grins back, and she’s almost blinding with her happiness, but the little voice in the back of Clarke’s head very quickly reminds her that _good things never last for long_.

 

∞

They devour their donuts in record time and pull into the school parking lot at 7:45, 15 minutes before the official start of their senior year. Lincoln had some scheduling issues (something to do with a crazy Linear Algebra class he wanted to take at Harper’s college during fourth block), so he and Octavia head to the main office, while Monty and Jasper go to examine the new cafeteria built over the summer. Then it’s just Raven, Clarke, and her camera, which is busily snapping away at everything she can think of. Her locker, Raven’s locker, the hallways, the occasional cluster of students, Clarke’s old Geometry teacher — she knows it might annoy people, but she’s feeling very sentimental right now. And she also has this thing — in Clarke’s mind, her camera is kind of like Wells. When she takes a picture, she imagines it’s through Wells’s eyes, and he’s getting to see all the things that Clarke does. 

 

She knows it might make her sound crazy. She knows it’s a little weird. But it helps, especially on the rough days, when her mind is filled with soccer balls and squealing brakes. And the best part is that Clarke is lucky enough to have friends who don’t judge her for it.

 

Raven and Clarke are deep in conversation about college apps (Stanford, Clarke’s dream school, starts accepting submissions on the first of November, and she's already nervous about it) when the bell rings, startling the both of them. “Well, here’s to the last first day, Griffin,” Raven says, slinging her backpack over one shoulder. “Want me to walk you to class?”

 

Clarke’s about to accept, but then she looks down at her class schedule. She’s got AP Literature with Ms. Stevens first block, which is all the way on the other side of the building, she realizes with a frustrated groan. “Crap, Rav, I wish I could, but I’ve got AP Lit first block,” she sighs, blowing a stray hair out of her face and already heading in the direction of her classroom.

 

“Your loss! Good luck getting there in time!” Raven calls over her shoulder. Clarke only has time to throw a smile her best friend’s way before she breaks into a sprint — she’ll be lucky if she gets there five minutes late.

 

She’s just reached the Language Arts hallway at 8:04 — turns out there’s a reason she got recruited for the track team her freshman year — when she runs into something that is very decidedly _not_ the doorway of her AP Lit class. Clarke’s groaning internally, but an apology is already forming on her tongue when she looks up and sees who it is.

 

_Lexa_. Clarke’s body reacts furiously to it, making her give a little gasp that is _so_ not like the normally-composed Clark, but Lexa’s latest reincarnation — dressed in skinny black jeans, not unlike the tight pants of the Commander, and a sleeveless Velvet Underground t-shirt — only snarls at her. “Watch where you’re going, princess,” the girl hisses, stalking off before Clarke can even respond.

 

Clarke is left stunned, temporarily unable to function as questions flood her thoughts — _what just happened? Why is she so mad at me? What’s her name this time?_ — and her head spinning a little bit. She doesn’t get long to process the encounter, however, as the 8:05 bell rings, signaling the start of her senior year and Clarke’s first official tardy. 

 

_Shit_. Clarke hurries down the hall, grabbing a seat at the front of the room just as Ms. Stevens walks in. She does a quick scan of the room as the PA system comes on and they say the Pledge of Allegiance, but she can’t find a single familiar face in here. Looks like Octavia and the rest of the gang got AP Lit a different block — well, except for Jasper and Monty, who both equally hate English with a passion and just opted for regular English 12. 

 

“Welcome to Advanced Placement Literature,” Ms. Stevens begins after announcements are over. At twenty-four, she’s the youngest teacher Clarke’s school has and possesses incredible charisma, which explains why she’s teaching four at-capacity classes of AP Lit. She also supervises O-Crew, the school’s student-run freshman orientation program, which Clarke and her friends have been a part of since sophomore year. “In case you didn’t already know me from O-Crew, my name is Ms. Stevens—”

 

The loud creak of an opening door interrupts her speech. Clarke watches as a petite, dark-haired figure slouches into the room, head down and trying to sneak into the back, but the room has gone silent, and Ms. Stevens doesn’t let them get far. “Ah, a newcomer! Come up here,” she calls. The figure freezes and looks up, and Clarke’s heart squeezes when she sees that it’s her soulmate. _Where has she been? It’s 8:20._ She watches far too eagerly as Lexa’s reincarnation walks to the front of the room, standing uneasily by Ms. Stevens.

 

“What’s your name?” their teacher asks.

 

“Alexandria Woods,” the other girl mutters. It’s a smooth, elegant name for someone who already seems so rough-edged.

 

Ms. Stevens quickly scans her list, and then her face lights up. “A new student, huh? That’s great. Welcome to Bellevue High,” she says. Then she gestures at Clarke. “Please, go take a seat next to Clark. She’s the head of O-Crew, so she has plenty of experience showing people around, and I’m sure she’ll be happy to give you a tour during lunch.”

 

Alexandria doesn’t say anything back, just scowls and sits next to Clarke. Lavender fills her lungs, and Clarke immediately regrets sitting here, AP Lit grade be damned. _This is going to be a_ very _long semester._

 

Ms. Stevens resumes the typical first-day spiel, and the class quickly transitions into a discussion of the summer reading. Their teacher passes out a worksheet of questions, and Clarke can’t help but smile to herself; she knows she’s the only one who did the reading, judging by the deer-in-the-headlights expressions her classmates are sporting. She grabs a pencil and starts on the _Wuthering Heights_ section.

 

Thirty minutes later, Clarke’s texting her friends while the rest of the class finishes up and Ms. Stevens prepares for the first discussion of the year. In this lifetime, Clarke’s a bit of a know-it-all; she’s aware of this, but her ultimate goal is to be class valedictorian, and that’s a goal she’ll need to achieve if she has any hope of getting into Stanford. Ever since Wells died, Clark Griffin has had this overwhelming desire to get out of Bellevue, Virginia, and _Clarke_ Griffin doesn’t see any reason to object. 

 

“Okay, guys. Let’s start talking about this worksheet,” Ms. Stevens announces. “What section do you want to cover first?”

 

Clarke’s phone buzzes with a text; she knows Ms. Stevens won’t call on her for a while, since she’s O-Crew Captain, so she hides it under her desk and reads the text.

 

** Raven Reyes **

** 9:05 AM **

** Manage to make it to AP Lit on time?  **

 

** Clark Griffin **

** 9:06 AM **

** Somehow, yeah. But of course I **

** accidentally ran into the hot new **

** girl on my way there. **

** Raven Reyes **

** 9:06 AM **

** Seriously? Haha, you have wonderful  ** ** luck, Griffin. Is she nice? **

 

** Clark Griffin **

** 9:07 AM **

** Not in the least. She told me to **

** watch where I was going, and  **

** even Ms. Stevens can’t get her **

** to crack a smile. **

 

** Raven Reyes **

** 9:08 AM **

** Sounds like a great gal. What’s **

** her name? I’ll keep an eye out **

** for her. **

 

** Clark Griffin **

** 9:08 AM **

** Alexandria Woods. **

 

** Raven Reyes **

** 9:09 AM **

** Ooh. Fancy. Maybe she’ll be in my **

** AP Calc class. A girl with a name like that **

** should be. Hell, she’ll give Octavia a run **

** for her number for the “Fanciest Name” **

** superlative. **

 

“Clark, I know I’m not that interesting, but you could at least pretend to be intrigued.” Clarke’s head shoots up, only to find Ms. Stevens hovering over her desk. Everyone’s staring at her expectantly, and she groans internally as she realizes she’s probably been asked a question.

 

“Sorry, Ms. Stevens,” she apologizes. “Could you repeat the question?”

 

“Sure.” Ms. Stevens smiles at her, and Clarke relaxes slightly, remembering why she’s everyone’s favorite teacher. “When Chapter Ten ends, what analogy does Nelly use to elaborate on her feelings concerning Heathcliff’s presence at Wuthering Heights?”

 

“Uh, well… Doesn’t she say —” Clarke is frozen. For some reason, she can’t remember the answer to save her life. She reaches for her book, but is interrupted by a smooth, low voice.

 

“Nelly says, ‘I felt that God had forsaken the stray sheep there to its own wicked wanderings, and an evil beast prowled between it and the fold, waiting his time to spring and destroy’. She’s comparing Hindley and herself to the sheep, and Heathcliff to the evil beast.” Clarke turns to see who’s stolen her spotlight, and her fists involuntarily clench when she realizes it’s Alexandria. Clarke will love any reincarnation of Lexa, but Clark, at the moment, _hates_ Alexandria — at first, she didn’t like her for her rudeness in the hallway, and now, she despises her for embarrassing her by stealing her question. 

 

For Clark Griffin, it’s game on. And for Clarke, it’s the beginning of something she never wanted to start.

 

∞

“So you’re mad because she answered your question for you?” Raven questions, popping a chip into her mouth. It’s finally lunchtime, thank God, although Octavia and Raven are the only ones who have the same lunch period as Clarke. Monty, Jasper, and Lincoln got stuck in third lunch.

 

“That seems kind of stupid, Clark,” Octavia comments, gulping down a bottle of water. “I mean, I guess I could see how it was a little embarrassing, but didn’t she technically save your ass? Wouldn’t it have been more awkward to sit in silence while you looked for the answer?” 

 

Clarke rolls her eyes. Octavia’s right, but she’s _really_ not in the mood to admit it. “Yeah, you have a point, O, but that doesn’t mean I’m not a little pissed about it,” she says, hugging her knees to her chest and staring at a group of juniors playing Frisbee in the courtyard. They look ridiculous, tossing the neon-pink disc around and trying to hit each other with it. “I guess it just seemed a little spiteful on her part. She was rude to me in the hallway, and then she _coincidentally_ decided to interrupt me when I was still trying to answer the question? She could’ve at least waited a few more seconds.”

 

Raven sighs. “Okay, Griffin, do you want me to be honest or do you want me to be nice?” 

 

Clarke groans. “Isn’t there a way to be both?”

 

“Not with this.”

 

“Okay, honest then.” 

 

Raven dusts the crumbs off her pants and moves a little closer to Clarke. “I think you’re turning a whole lot of nothing into a whole lot of something, babe. I understand that it seemed kind of weird after your encounter with her in the hallway, but it’s her first day at a new school, and she was probably feeling a little overwhelmed,” she says. “Give her some slack.”

 

Those words, combined with a deep breath, suddenly make Clarke feel a lot better. “Thanks, Raven, and thank you too, O,” she tells her friends. “I needed to calm down for a second and hear some reasoning.”

 

“What would you do without us, Clark Griffin?” Octavia laughs.

 

“I don’t know.” And the truth is, she does know — she’s lived a thousand lifetimes without her best friends by her side, but that doesn’t mean they were any good. Thanks to this lifetime, she also knows she will appreciate Raven Reyes and Octavia Blake even more than she already did, if that’s even possible. Her friends keep her sane, and when she returns to Camp Jaha — if she ever does — she finally feels a glimmer of hope that maybe they’ll help her survive losing Lexa for the final time.

 

But if she’s being completely honest, the thought of losing this Lexa, snarl and interruptions and all, is already driving her a little insane. 

 

∞

For the first time since Anneliese, Clarke goes out of her way to avoid Lexa — or Alexandria, she guesses she should say, although Lexa feels far more natural in her mind. But even when she’s avoiding her soulmate, she still finds out quite a lot about her. For example, _Alexandria_ has a very difficult time obeying authority. Even with Ms. Stevens, who is the most easy-going teacher at Bellevue, it seems that Alexandria is sent to the office at least once a week, whether it’s for disobedience or falling asleep halfway through class. This is something that particularly puzzles Clarke — it is in Lexa’s nature to be a leader, or at least someone who follows the rules, which was why she was born to become _heda_ and Commander of 12 clans. But Alexandria seems to be the opposite of a _heda_ — sure, she has all the bite and fight in her, and just one look from Alexandria would probably send Roan to his knees, but she would never have the respect of the Coalition. Her occasional answers in AP Lit prove that the girl is smart, but she just doesn’t seem to want to _try_. And that, most of all, concerns Clarke. In every lifetime, there’s always been some sort of fire in Lexa, no matter how hidden: Alicia was desperate to get out from under Tit’s thumb, even spit in his face; Alainne ran away from her tyrant of a husband, and faced death more bravely than anyone Clarke’s ever known; and Livia was willing to die to take care of the one she loved. So for Alexandria to just seem so _nonchalant_ , so _done_ with life — that’s something that bothers Clarke a lot.

 

Clarke tries not to let it worry her too much. She distracts herself with “study groups” with her friends, which mainly just consist of Red Bulls, junk food, and Mario Kart, and focuses on beginning her college applications. She finishes her essay for Stanford the second week of October, but something about it doesn’t feel quite right. When Octavia and Raven didn’t have any answers, Lincoln suggested that she text Bellamy, considering he managed to successfully apply to UC Berkeley. Clarke took his suggestion, and had immediately whipped out her phone to compose a long, overly-sentimental text to Bellamy, full of unnecessary praise for his genius and people skills.

 

Bellamy had advised her to give her essay to a teacher for review, and so now, at 7:30 AM on a Wednesday, Clarke’s standing in her AP Lit classroom, carefully gauging her teacher’s reaction as she reads through the first page of the essay that could change her life.

 

Ms. Stevens stops reading, sets down the paper and looks at Clarke. Her teacher’s pale pink nail polish is chipped, she notes; Clarke thinks she might have the same color at home, and has a brief but vivid flashback of Octavia painting her toenails with it when they were thirteen. The bottle’s probably gone bad by now.

 

“From what I’ve read so far, this is good, Clark,” Ms. Stevens begins. “And I am confident that, with a little tweaking, this could definitely help your chances of getting into any decent university.” Clarke beams, ready to assess what needs to be done and take action, but Ms. Stevens stops her. “Not so fast, Captain. We’ve got a dilemma here.”

 

Clarke’s face falls, and her temples instantaneously start up a dull throb, the beginnings of one of her infamous frustration headaches. “What kind of dilemma?” she whispers, willing herself not to cry. Well, not really willing _herself_ not to cry; more like willing _Clark_ not to cry. Sobbing over a college essay seems so stupid when she compares it to the loss of Lexa, Finn, Wells, her father, and so many others. The challenges she faces at Camp Jaha are so much greater than any of this.

 

“I have already received at least twenty college essays to look over,” her teacher says softly. “I’ve already made commitments to those people, and I can’t let them down. I don’t know if I have enough time to take on any more essays.” 

 

“ _Please_ , Ms. Stevens,” Clarke begs. She feels beyond ridiculous right now. “I need this. You’re the only teacher I trust enough to handle this properly. If I don’t get into Stanford, out of this town, I don’t know what I’ll do.” Tears prickle at the corners of her eyes, and Ms. Stevens’ face softens even more than it already had.

 

“Look, Clark, I want to help you,” she says. “So let me offer you a deal: I need someone to tutor one or two of my most challenging students. Kids that are really intelligent, but don’t want to put in the effort to learn. They can be a little hard to deal with, but nothing that you can’t handle. If you can tutor those students, I can squeeze in your essay for sure. Otherwise, it might have to be left up to chance.” 

 

It’s a bit of a dirty move on Ms. Stevens’ part, and it instantly sours Clarke’s opinion of the beloved teacher. Still, the ambassador in her can’t deny that it’s a great deal, and so she finds herself sticking out her hand to shake on it. “I’ll do it” tumbles out of her mouth before she can help herself, an eager smile on her lips, and Ms. Stevens grins back at her.

 

“Then we have a deal. I’ll see you after school lets out.” 

 

∞

Clarke is in Ms. Stevens’ classroom at 2:10 on the dot; there are still a few stragglers streaming out of the room when she gets there, but Ms. Stevens sits at her desk, scribbling a grade in bright red ink on a worksheet Clarke recognizes from a couple of days ago. She looks up when she hears the clacking of Clarke’s booties on the tile floor.

 

“Clark! Happy to see you. Feel free to take a seat anywhere, maybe do some of your AP Lit work while you wait,” her teacher says lightly. “One of my kids canceled our after-school session today, so we’ve only got the one coming. She should be here in a few minutes.”

 

Clarke nods and finds her usual seat, then pulls out her AP Lit homework — she needs to get it done as soon as possible, because _Criminal Minds_ comes on every Wednesday night, and Octavia and Raven are basically obsessed with the show. They’ve had Wednesday night viewing parties every week since they were fourteen, and their parents have been fine with it, provided they keep their grades up. But if Clarke doesn’t finish _The Great Gatsby_ before then… well, she’s screwed for the quiz she has tomorrow. And with Stanford on the line, she cannot afford to let that happen.

 

Clarke has been so wrapped up in her _Great Gatsby_ -induced anxiety that she’s startled when Ms. Stevens taps her on the shoulder. “Clark? She’s here.”

 

Clarke looks over to the front of the room, and groans instantly. Alexandria is waiting there, tapping one black combat boot on the floor impatiently, the ever-present scowl evident on her features. When she sees Clarke, a shadow crosses her face, and she looks like she wants to leave, but something must be compelling her to stay. Clarke doesn’t have the arrogance to pretend that she’s the reason.

 

“Hi, Alexandria,” she says through a plastered-on smile, getting up and walking over to her classmate. “What do you need help with today?”

 

“I certainly don’t need help from you,” her soulmate retorts, the strap of her bag sliding off her shoulder. 

 

“Alexandria,” Ms. Stevens warns, “remember that you need to pass this class to graduate. You should take Clark’s help while she’s still offering it. She’s the best tutor I could offer you, aside from myself.” 

 

Alexandria lets out a pained sigh and drops her bag next to her desk. “Fine. But she better be as good as you say she is.” 

 

∞

An hour later, Clarke has confirmed that Alexandria’s _real_ issue isn’t a lack of understanding or a lack of intelligence — it’s a lack of motivation. But for some reason, when Alexandria slips out thedoor and Ms. Stevens asks her what she thinks the issue is, Clarke can’t bring herself to tell the truth. Maybe it’s because something in her wants to have more of these tutoring sessions with Alexandria, no matter how many scowls and glares she has to endure, or maybe it’s because she doesn’t want to affect her teacher’s opinion of her soulmate. She wants Alexandria to have a chance, a way to prove herself, and she has a feeling the girl won’t get that if Ms. Stevens thinks she’s lazy.

 

So Clarke just says she’s not sure yet and practically snatches the tutoring schedule out of her teacher’s hand. With a hasty goodbye, she’s out the door in thirty seconds. Octavia and Lincoln are supposed to be waiting out front for her, but Clarke walks out into the chilly October air to find that the familiar Trailblazer is _not_ where it should be. With hands whose shaking she doesn’t quite know how to explain, Clarke dials Octavia’s number and waits.

 

Finally, on the fourth ring, her best friend picks up. “Hey, Clark!” she chirps. “How are—” Clarke can practically hear the girl’s face fall. “Oh, shit,” Octavia whispers. “Linc and I were supposed to pick you up. I totally forgot. I’m so sorry. We’re getting in the car right now. Are you okay? Do you have a jacket?” 

 

Clarke can’t help but laugh as she hears the jangle of keys and her friend shouting to Lincoln to come. “Don’t worry about it, O,” she says. “I’m not gonna freeze. I’ll see you in fifteen.” Octavia hums in distracted agreement, the engine of her SUV roaring to life on the other end, and Clarke ends the call.

 

A particularly strong breeze practically cuts through Clarke’s thin fleece jacket, and she decides to head back into the front hallway of the school for refuge. When she practically trips over a pair of scuffed black boots in her hurry to get there, however, Clarke knows she won’t be getting warm any time soon. 

 

“Seriously, do you have a problem with me or something?” Alexandria hisses, ripping out her earbuds and scrambling to stand up. “Maybe you should see a doctor about your utter lack of coordination.” 

 

“My mother is a doctor,” Clarke says coolly, “so I think if there were a problem, she’d know by now. But thanks for the advice, Alexandria. So kind of you. It’s always a great idea to be rude to your tutor, isn’t it?”

 

Alexandria’s cheeks flush; she’s clearly embarrassed, but she refuses to break eye contact with Clarke. “Look, I didn’t ask for a tutor—” she starts, but Clarke doesn’t let her finish.

 

“That’s right,” she cuts in. “You didn’t ask for a tutor. Ms. Stevens made you get one, because you’re failing AP Literature, even with someone who is arguably the easiest teacher you could ever have. And now, you’re trying to push me away, and for what? Because you don’t want help?” Alexandria looks like she wants to punch her, but Clarke keeps going. “I don’t understand it. You’re so intelligent, it’s obvious, but you don’t want to try. Why would you not want an easy A? _Why_ would you try so hard for a D? It’s nonsensical, Lexa.”

 

Clarke freezes, and Alexandria flinches. She hadn’t meant to call the other girl that name, but for whatever reason, it’s obviously offended her. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to be so harsh —” Clarke tries to say, but Alexandria stops her.

 

“No. Shut up. Apologies don’t matter when you clearly meant what you said. It’s obvious you wanted to hurt me. I get it; I’m unlikable. But _don’t ever_ call me that again,” she hisses. Clarke’s left standing there, jaw on the floor, as her soulmate slings her bag over her shoulder and stalks off. 

 

_Well. That’s one way to win over your soulmate._

 

∞

Alexandria doesn’t show up to the next tutoring session, or the one after that. When she misses the third day in a row, Clarke knows her soulmate is on thin ice with Ms. Stevens, and also knows she has to do something so the girl doesn’t flunk out of her senior year. She can’t let Alexandria screw her life up like this, not when she has so much potential.

 

So after class one day, when everyone else has already left AP Lit and they’re the last ones in there, Clarke corners her. “Alexandria, we need to talk,” she says. Ms. Stevens glances over at them knowingly, and chooses that moment to slip out to re-fill her Bellevue Buccaneers coffee mug. 

 

Green eyes like a forest fire stare back at her, almost accusatorially. “What could we possibly need to talk about, Clark?” her soulmate shoots back. She clicks the k in her name, like Lexa used to, and Clarke could almost double over from the pain in her chest.

 

“Please just listen to me for five seconds,” Clarke begs, and there must be something in her voice that convinces the other girl, because the burn in her eyes dulls a bit, and she throws her bag onto her desk.

 

“You have five minutes,” Alexandria says, all steel and ice, and Clarke could cry, because it’s _so very_ Lexa.

 

“I don’t know why you hate me,” Clarke begins. “I don’t know what about me irritates you so much. And I don’t know why you don’t like to be called Lexa, but that was an honest slip of the tongue, and I’m sorry if I upset you. And I don’t know why I feel so compelled to help you, but I do. I want to help you, or at least help you help yourself. You’re way too smart to get a D in AP Literature, Alexandria. You could be valedictorian if you wanted to, I bet, but you’re not even trying. It’s like you don’t care at all, and it’s kind of scary to see, because I know you have so much potential. And am I being a little intrusive, and a little too like someone’s overprotective helicopter mom? Yeah, probably. But I’d rather be all that and watch you succeed than be none of that and watch you fail.”

 

Alexandria is silent for a moment, but then she gives one of those little quintessential Commander nods, signaling her agreement, and says: “And how exactly do you plan to ‘help’ me, Clark?”

 

“Just let me tutor you,” Clarke breathes. 

 

“According to your logic, I don’t need a tutor, just motivation,” Alexandria points out.

 

“That’s true, but maybe I can tutor you in the art of trying harder.” Clarke can’t help the smile that forms on her face as she says that. Up until now, Lexa has never needed help with trying harder — but there’s a first time for everything, she supposes.

 

Something about that wins Alexandria over; Clarke can see it on the girl’s face, as everything about her softens and her lips curl up in some strange in-between of a smirk and a smile. But the softness disappears as quickly as it came, probably as soon as the other girl sees that Clarke has noticed it, and Alexandria clears her throat and stands tall, rolling her shoulders back like she’s about to go to war. “One week.”

 

“One week of what?” Clarke asks.

 

“One week of tutoring. A trial period, you could call it. And by the end, if I’m not convinced that our tutoring sessions will be successful, then you’ll have to find someone else to patronize,” Alexandria says smoothly. It stings a little, to hear the other girl call her patronizing, but Clarke can ignore her insults if it’s for the greater good.

 

“Fine. It’s a deal,” she says. Alexandria offers her hand, and Clarke doesn’t hesitate to shake it. This will be a new beginning — that is her silent promise, not just to herself, but the both of them. She will not let her soulmate slip away again.

 

∞

“So you’re going to tutor her now? I thought you hated this girl,” Raven says, catching a piece of popcorn in her mouth. Octavia tosses another piece her way, but it bounces off the edge of Clarke’s dresser and rolls away.

 

“Dammit, guys, I’m going to have to bring out a heavy-duty vacuum once you leave if you keep this up,” Clarke complains, crawling under her bed for a moment to grab the popcorn and throw it in the trash. 

 

“I’d say sorry, but I’m having way too much fun with this for that,” Raven says casually. “Now, back to the main topic of conversation: Alexandria Woods. You’re tutoring her. Why?”

 

Clarke shrugs. Clark Griffin’s soul does not understand yet, even though Clarke’s soul does, but she’s not about to spill the beans and ruin the timeline. “I guess I just feel like it’s the right thing to do,” she says uncertainly, the end of her sentence turning up and sounding more like a question than an answer. “She obviously needs support, and I bet she’s not getting much of that at home. She needs someone, and I want to be there for her.”

 

“But you barely even know her, Griffin,” Octavia argues, sitting up and looking straight at Clarke. “Why would you want to help someone that’s basically bitched at you every time you’ve been around her? Plus, weren’t you pissed when she showed you up on the first day of school? The Clark Griffin I know would be out for revenge, not some kind of community service award.” 

 

“Yeah,” Raven agrees, “if you’re so hell-bent on getting into Stanford, Griff, then why would you want to help someone who’s a possible competitor? I know you’re a great person outside of school grounds, but I’ve also known you to be pretty ruthless when it comes to academia.” 

 

Clark is getting a little frustrated, and Clarke can feel the migraine coming on already. “Look, guys, can you just drop it?” she says, blowing out an exasperated breath. “Maybe I just want to help someone else for once. You know that Wells would have done it.”

 

Everyone goes silent at that. No one argues with Clarke about Wells. They know her memory of him is too sacred for that. 

 

After a few moments of loud silence, Raven finally says, “Sorry, Clark. If you want to tutor Alexandria, good on you. It’s really nice of you. Now can we please bring out the Playstation?”

 

Clarke laughs. _Raven, never change_.

 

∞

“So really, the Salem witch trials in _The Crucible_ are really just one big metaphor for McCarthyism—” Clarke stops in the middle of her sentence when she sees that Alexandria’s not paying attention. “Alexandria?”

 

Her soulmate jumps a little in her seat; she’s clearly been daydreaming, and Clarke flushes, her peripheral vision having already clued her in to the fact that the other girl was staring at her. “Sorry,” Alexandria mutters. “Can you repeat that?”

 

It’s day two of the Week from Hell, as Raven has titled it, and so far things aren’t going all that great. Alexandria has a hard time paying attention, and Clarke’s not sure if the other girl is just tired or lacking in motivation. She has a remedy for the former issue, but not for the latter; how do you make someone _want_ to try harder in AP Literature when they’ve already been threatened with discipline and a failing grade? Clarke doesn’t even know where her soulmate wants to go to college, if she wants to go at all.

 

Clarke closes her book. “Maybe we should end this session for today,” she suggests. “You seem really tired.” While Clarke’s not sure what the usual issue is with Alexandria, it’s obvious that lack of sleep is a problem today, if the giant purple bags under her classmate’s eyes are any indication. 

 

“I can’t go home,” Alexandria murmurs. 

 

Clarke frowns. “Why not?” _Oh god,_ she thinks, _is my soulmate homeless?_ She doesn’t even want to begin to think about the love of her life (well, _lives_ ) going through that kind of pain.

 

“My aunt doesn’t get off work till six tonight, and I live too far away to walk. Normally I’d drive home, but my car’s in the shop,” Alexandria replies, biting her lip and looking away, like she’s ashamed of herself — why she’d feel that way, Clarke can’t imagine.

 

“I can give you a ride,” Clarke offers. Her mother’s got a car, but Clarke knows that they can’t afford to buy one for her if she has any hope of going to college, so she’s only able to drive herself places when her mom’s out of town and she gets to use the car. Luckily, today happens to be one of those days.

 

“Really?” Alexandria raises a brow. “Are you sure?”

 

Clarke nods. “Of course. I’m not going to leave you to just wander around here till six. That’s four hours from now.” She doesn’t allow the other girl time to protest; she shoves her things into her bag at lightning speed and hurries out the room, checking over her shoulder to make sure Alexandria has followed. She has.

 

By the time they reach Clarke’s car, a beat-up old Chevy Malibu, it’s pouring rain. Clarke doesn’t have an umbrella, and she’s cursing under her breath as she struggles with the key in the lock of the door. The locks act up sometimes, and of course the Malibu would choose _today_ to be a total bitch. 

 

Finally, she gets the door open, and quickly opens the passenger door so Alexandria can scoot in. Her soulmate hasn’t said a word this entire time, and Clarke has to wonder if maybe she’s a little angry with her for forcing her help on her. It would be in character for someone with Lexa’s soul; the Commander never enjoyed looking weak, and she’d wager that Alexandria isn’t much different in terms of that personality trait.

 

They’re both shivering as Clarke turns the key in the ignition and gets the heater started. Alexandria’s teeth are chattering, her black T-shirt sticking to her skin and making her curves _very_ obvious. If they were at a better stage in their relationship, Clarke would probably allow herself to stare a little, but she knows that it’d be a bad idea at this point. Her soulmate does look beautiful, though, even with her spirals of curls plastered to her head and the drops of water that are clinging to her face, having left her mascara in streaks. But Clarke has to maintain some illusion of control; she’ll come off as a creep if she looks for too long, because Alexandria doesn’t know their history, all the lives they’ve lived together and all the times Clarke has kissed and held that same body, even if it pains Clarke to acknowledge that. 

 

“So, w-what’s your a-address?” Clarke stammers out, still shaking from the combination of cold and wet. Alexandria tells her, and with trembling hands, Clarke types it into Google Maps, making so many typos that it’s kind of driving her crazy.

 

Alexandria’s house is on the south side of Bellevue, so far south that it’s actually almost in the next town over. It’s a miracle that Clarke manages to drive that far without wrecking her car, because even with the full force of the heater on, she still can’t quite stop shivering. Clarke knows what the solution to her problem is, but she wouldn’t dare suggest it, for fear of alienating Alexandria even further.

 

The house isn’t much, if Clarke’s being honest. It’s two stories, with a white wood exterior that’s missing some paint around the windows, and a forest green front door with obvious cracks in it. The windows haven’t been cleaned in decades, probably, and one of the steps leading up to the porch has completely rotted away. But for all its flaws, the house has some charm to it. Clarke can see pretty blue curtains hanging in the living room, and there’s a beautifully-maintained garden in the back. It’s right in front of a little forest, and the closest neighbor is a mile or two down the road. So Clarke has to say, it’s not a bad house overall, even if the exterior might make real estate agents cringe.

 

She walks Alexandria up to her front door, hesitating only when the girl unlocks the door and begins to step in. “S-see you tomorrow,” Clarke starts, but Alexandria turns around, grabbing her wrist, and the intensity in her soulmate’s eyes makes Clarke ache, and not just in her heart.

 

“No. Stay,” Alexandria says lowly. “You need to get out of those wet clothes.”

 

_Do I ever_. Clarke swallows hard. “O-okay.” She follows Alexandria in, immediately letting out a sigh of relief as the door shuts behind them and the warmth of the house surrounds her. She takes in her surroundings; there’s a cozy little kitchen to her immediate left, a hallway in front of her, and a small living room to her right, full of family pictures that Clarke doesn’t feel comfortable examining just yet.

 

“I’ll be right back.” Alexandria disappears into the hallway ahead, and Clarke is left standing there, dripping onto the wood floor, until a few minutes later, her soulmate reappears, this time bearing black sweatpants and a gray Harvard sweatshirt.

 

“Go change.” Alexandria points to a bathroom next to the kitchen. Clarke doesn’t hesitate this time, and she runs into the bathroom in record time. Again, there’s a reason she’s done track in previous lifetimes.

 

She peels off her soaked jeans and henley, letting out a little gasp as her bare skin meets the air, tiny goosebumps rising on her legs and arms. Clarke has to bite back a moan of pure pleasure as she slips on the sweatpants; it’s nice to be in something warm, and when she gets a whiff of the scent of lavender on the sweatshirt, she knows these clothes are Alexandria’s. That knowledge only serves to make her heart race even faster. This is _not_ going to be good for her.

 

She finds a stray elastic on the counter and puts her hair into a messy bun, hoping that Alexandria won’t mind, and leaves the bathroom, holding her wet clothes in her arms. Alexandria is already standing there, waiting for her, now clad in gray sweatpants (god, how many pairs of sweatpants does this girl own?) and an oversized T-shirt that says “HARVARD SCHOOL OF LAW” in big crimson letters.

 

“You guys have a thing for Harvard around here?” Clarke asks, indicating to Alexandria’ T-shirt and her sweatshirt. The other girl seems almost embarrassed by the question; she flushes almost as red as the words on their shirts and can’t seem to look anywhere but the floor.

 

“It’s a family thing,” Alexandria murmurs, and the unease in her voice tells Clarke not to bring it up again, so she lets the subject drop. 

 

“Well, thanks for the clothes—” Clarke is interrupted by a large clap of thunder, and seconds later, a bolt of lightning outside lights up the whole house. Alexandria flinches, and Clarke’s chest constricts as she thinks, _Thunder can sound a lot like gunshots._

 

“Do you want me to stay with you until your aunt gets home?” Clarke offers, against all better judgment. “It’s really nasty out, I don’t know if my car will be able to hold up in this anyway. And, according to the Weather Channel—” she quickly pulls out her phone and checks the app—“this storm should be gone by six-thirty at the latest.” 

 

Alexandria’s shoulders stiffen initially at the proposal, but then relax after a moment. “It probably wouldn’t be a good idea for you to go out in this,” she agrees. 

Clarke can’t help but smile. “Thank you,” she says. “If I messed up the car, my mom would probably kill me, and I’m not very good at driving in thunderstorms. They kind of distract me.” That’s not a lie; Clark’s soul is fascinated by thunderstorms, and it’s an interesting — albeit slightly morbid — parallel, as the claps of thunder remind Clarke of the gunshot that killed her lover.

 

Alexandria raises a brow. “Distract you? In what way?” 

 

“I find them fascinating,” Clarke confesses. “In a way, the sound is almost relaxing, and when the sky just lights up… I think that’s beautiful.” She could cringe at the words that Clark’s soul are forcing her to pour out. Alexandria mutters something under her breath at it, but Clarke doesn’t quite catch it. “What?” 

 

“They terrify me,” Alexandria repeats herself, looking away sheepishly as she does so. Clarke’s heart throbs painfully. _Of course._

 

“Well, I don’t think this storm should be too bad—” Clarke can’t even finish her sentence before a particularly loud clap of thunder booms outside, so intense she swears the very walls of the house vibrate, and the lights flicker. 

 

“You don’t think it will be too bad? Really?” Alexandria mocks, but there’s a slight tremble in her voice that she can’t hide. Clarke wants nothing more than to hold her and tell her it’ll be okay, but this isn’t Polis and the girl standing across from her isn’t Lexa, not quite. 

 

“We should probably grab some flashlights,” Clarke says. “Where do you keep yours?” 

 

“We just moved in to this house,” Alexandria retorts. “We don’t exactly have an emergency kit yet.” Clark’s soul wants to snark about how stupid that is, but Clarke bites her lip and manages to hold the comment back. 

 

“Well, my phone’s still got some juice left in it,” she notes, pulling it out to check the percentage. “We can use the flashlight on there if we have to. But I suggest we grab some snacks and get comfy somewhere to wait this thing out.” 

 

For once, Alexandria doesn’t argue or respond with a snarky remark, just nods and heads for the kitchen pantry, and ten minutes later, they’re curled up on her living room couch, sharing a bowl of trail mix (disgustingly healthy, in Clarke’s opinion, but apparently secret-health-nut Alexandria’s snack of choice). Alexandria’s draped a ratty green blanket over them, and Clarke can’t help but notice that it’s the same shade as her soulmate’s eyes. (By now, Clarke’s accepted the terrible, awful things that a love like this does to her, but she still cringes at her own disgustingly sappy thoughts sometimes, and that one is no exception.) 

 

They’re in the midst of a slightly-heated debate about the value of small-town living (Clarke loves it, Alexandria hates it with a passion) when a devastating clap of thunder roars outside, and the lights flicker once, twice, three times before finally giving out. Six inches to her left, Alexandria lets out a choked cry, the other girl’s ragged breathing letting Clarke know just how much her soulmate fears thunderstorms in this lifetime. (And honestly, if she’d been killed by a bullet in one of her lifetimes, Clarke would hate thunderstorms, too. To be fair, particularly sharp blades do make her wince ever since Cybil’s gruesome end.)

 

And in this moment, Clarke finally sees Alexandria’s walls begin to crumble. Because when she wraps her arm around the shaking girl and pulls her just a _touch_ closer, little by little, until the scent of lavender fills her nose and she can rest her chin on soft brown curls — because when she does all this, Alexandria doesn’t push her away. She doesn’t hiss, she doesn’t yell, she doesn’t even make a sarcastic comment. And best of all, she doesn’t leave.

 

She does whisper, “ _I’m sorry_ ,” so quietly that the thunder almost drowns her out.

 

But Clarke hears her. She always does. And that’s when she presses a kiss to the top of her soulmate’s head and murmurs, “It’s okay. I’ve got you.” _And I always will._

 

∞

Clarke has never been more thankful for a thunderstorm, because it’s that night that sets off the change — not just in their relationship, but in Alexandria. She’s more motivated, more open and happy at school. She actually does her homework, and Clarke can only watch in amazement as Alexandria aces quiz after quiz, test after test, and exam after exam, and single-handedly raises her grade from a D to an A- by the end of the semester. Ms. Stevens tells her that she’s never seen a student improve her grade that quickly. And from what Clarke’s been hearing, the development isn’t just confined to AP Lit; by January, Alexandria’s apparently got straight A’s and B’s. And Alexandria’s progress is contagious; Clarke’s soaring at school, even managing to finish AP Calculus AB with a solid A. 

 

They do have their setbacks. Clarke’s comes first. On December 15th, Stanford’s Early Action decision release date, Clarke opens her e-mail to find out that she’s been deferred; she won’t receive a final decision until April 1st. In a decidedly un-Clark-like move, she opts to skip her last class of the day in favor of heading home to binge-watch _The Office_ with Octavia and Raven. But the atmosphere is different this time; it’s not as comforting. Clarke knows that Raven is secretly floating on air, having just been accepted into MIT, and Octavia is content, having just sent in her application last week for the state college, where Lincoln also wants to go (and Clarke doesn’t have a doubt that they’ll both get in). So when Alexandria texts her and asks why she’s not at their “tutoring session” (Clarke puts that in quotes now, because ever since Alexandria’s vast improvement, their sessions have basically turned into hour-long debates and discussions about whatever’s in the news that day), Clarke doesn’t think twice to mumble a quick apology, throw her shoes on, and drive to the school as fast as she’s legally able, mascara-stained cheeks and all. Alexandria’s waiting for her at the front entrance, Ms. Stevens long having escaped to the teachers’ lounge; there’s a slightly irritated expression on her soulmate’s face, but after taking one look at Clarke’s blotchy complexion and red-rimmed eyes, Alexandria offers a hug, not a snide remark.

 

Clarke relaxes into the hug, the warmth of her soulmate’s body and the smell of lavender comforting her more than any comedic verse from Steve Carell ever could. “Stanford released their decisions today, didn’t they?” Alexandria whispers in her ear. Clarke nods against her shoulder, and the other girl lets out a sigh before murmuring words that bring tears to Clarke’s eyes: “They’ll be lucky to have you come April 1st.” 

 

It’s Alexandria that gets her through that tough moment, and so when her soulmate has a tough moment of her own just one week later, it only makes sense that Clarke would be there for her. It’s December 22nd, their last day of school before winter break, and everyone’s cheery and bright, excited for a few weeks of rest and peace before the return to the daily grind that is high school — well, everyone except for Alexandria. She’s unusually quiet today, not even flashing a small smile when Clarke glances her way; she’s the Alexandria of September, and that’s still an Alexandria Clarke would love on any given day, but she is worried for her soulmate. So naturally, when the bell rings at the end of the day to signal the start of their break, the first thing that Clarke does is catch Alexandria in the hallway and offer her a ride home.

 

But Clarke goes from worried to panicked when, at this suggestion, Alexandria’s face darkens, eyes trained on the floor. “I’d rather not be home for a while,” she mutters, kicking the toe of her combat boot against the tile.

 

“That’s okay,” Clarke says, maybe a little too eagerly. “Let’s go to the…” Alexandria watches as Clarke struggles to come up with a suggestion for a few moments before finally settling on something. “Library,” Clarke finishes. “Let’s go to the library. I have a few books I need to return before they close for the holidays, anyway.” 

 

Actually, Clarke hasn’t checked out a book from her local library since she was five years old and her dad helped her pick out a _Clifford the Big Red Dog_ book to share at Show and Tell. But she’ll figure that one out when they get there. 

 

When they step into the library, it’s a pleasant surprise to discover that Alexandria finds comfort in the feel of old, yellowed pages and the musty scent that fills their lungs. The little white lie about ‘necessary returns’ is forgotten as they traipse through the young adult section, the romance section, and the Local Mysteries area before finally settling in the little kids’ room. Clarke has always liked this room best, she thinks, with its pastel bean bags and cutesy motivational posters. She’s delighted to see that Alexandria likes it just as much, walking around the room in slight awe and even giggling at the print of the “Hang in there, baby!” kitten on the wall. 

 

But then the brunette spots a book titled “Mommy, I’m Going to Yale!: The Story of A Seven-Year-Old-Genius” (which really shouldn’t be in the kids’ section, in Clarke’s opinion), and her whole face crumples. She collapses into a beanbag, and Clarke can’t control the way she rushes to her soulmate’s side.

 

Alexandria’s shoulders shake with silent sobs, and Clarke is scared it might make her worse, but she knows she has to ask. “Does this have something to do with why you didn’t want to go home today?” she murmurs. 

 

Alexandria lets out a long, slow breath, and Clarke thinks she hears her count to ten under her breath before she turns to face the blonde. “Yes,” she admits, so quiet that Clarke has to strain to hear. “It’s just — I sent in some Early Action applications, too. To five colleges, actually. And they all rejected me. Harvard included.” She lets out a bitter laugh at this, and that’s how Clarke knows that this is _really_ bad for the brunette.

 

“Oh, Alexandria. I’m so sorry,” Clarke says softly, gathering the other girl in her arms and hugging tight. She hears a muffled sniffle, and pulls back slightly to give Alexandria more room to breathe. Her t-shirt’s damp, but Clarke’ll be damned before she says anything about it.

 

“Anya’s going to be so mad,” Alexandria whispers, looking up at her. Clarke knows from experience that her soulmate is searching for some semblance of comfort in her eyes, and she hopes that’s what the other girl finds. “I’m going to be the first Woods to not go to Harvard,” she cries, burying her face in Clarke’s shirt again and letting out a sob. “ _God_ , I’m so mad at myself. I was so stupid. I should’ve tried harder, done better…”

 

“ _Stop_ , Alexandria,” Clarke pleads, gently tilting the girl’s chin up so their eyes meet. It kills her to see the hurt in those beautiful green eyes, to take in the tearstained cheeks of her soulmate’s face and know that there’s absolutely nothing she can do to take away that pain. “You did the best you could, and for what it’s worth, _I’m_ proud of you. Just because you didn’t get into Harvard doesn’t mean you’re stupid, and it doesn’t mean you’re a disappointment to your family. Anya is your aunt; she will love you no matter what, overpriced Ivy League or not. You are so much more than the college you go to, and the people that really belong in your life will know that.” 

 

Alexandria’s about to respond when she winces, and Clarke’s eyes track down to her soulmate’s clenched fists, which are currently dripping blood. When Alexandria unclenches them, Clarke can see the red crescent moons from where the brunette’s dug her nails into her palms.

 

“I’m sorry, Clarke,” Alexandria says quietly. “I just got so mad, and I— I couldn’t help it— Shit, I always mess everything up—”

 

“Hey, hey. You’re okay. It’s okay, Lexa.” Clarke rubs the girl’s back in her best imitation of Abby’s soothing circles, only realizing her slip-up when her soulmate looks up at her with watery eyes.

 

“Lexa?” Alexandria breathes.

 

“Oh, my god. I’m sorry. I know you hate that name. It just slipped out,” Clarke stammers, praying she hasn’t upset her soulmate further.

 

Alexandria just shakes her head. “No, you don’t understand. It’s okay. I know I got mad last time, but I just hadn’t heard that name in a long time.” She sits up, hugging her knees to her chest. “It’s what my mother used to call me,” she whispers, staring up at a water stain on the ceiling tiles. 

 

And then, she tells Clarke everything. How her father died in a car accident when she was seven, and her formerly sweet mother became a raging alcoholic to cope. Alexandria was diagnosed with intermittent explosive disorder when she was thirteen — basically, she could sometimes have random outbursts of anger and, she’d admitted sheepishly, even violence that were totally disproportionate to the situation at hand. Therapy helped at first, but they couldn’t afford it for long, with her mother being the only source of income. When she was fifteen, Alexandria’s anger began to build— her mother lost her job after one too many sick days spent nursing a hangover, and they’d be homeless by Christmas. She began to act out at school, associating with people that didn’t really care about her and sneaking out of the house at night to go drink and cause trouble with them. Her episodes came more frequently and were more intense. Alexandria wasn’t happy; she was miserable, in fact. And Clarke could understand why — at fifteen, she’d dealt with a lot more than many adults. She could relate to that, in a sense. Hell, she’d learned about her father’s plan for the Ark at sixteen.

 

Finally, when Alexandria hit seventeen, she was kicked out of school for getting in a fight with another girl. Assault charges were pressed when said girl ended up needing plastic surgery for a broken nose, and that was how the love of Clarke’s life found herself in a juvenile detention center just months before turning eighteen (she’d been lucky, she said, that the judge had decided to try her as a minor and not an adult, since she was so close to eighteen). 

 

Alexandria got early release on good behavior a month before her eighteenth birthday in August, but with two catches: one, she had to go two years without another charge, or she’d end up back in jail. Second, she had to start at another school.

 

With her mother’s state and therefore their inability to afford a move, Alexandria wasn’t sure how they were going to accomplish the second option (or the first, either, seeing as she’d probably need anger management classes and/or some therapy to avoid getting into further trouble). But, as it turned out, Child Protective Services had done a nice, thorough check-in with her mother while Alexandria had been in juvie. Apparently, her judge had double-majored in Psychology _and_ Pre-Law Studies in college, and had recognized that anger problems can stem from one’s childhood and home environment. He’d been “nice” enough to order a check-up via CPS, and well, that was that. Alexandria’s mother was sent to court-ordered rehab (now that Alexandria wasn’t there to drive her, she’d received a DUI in no time), and Alexandria was put under the guardianship of her father’s younger sister, Anya Woods. Anya had been based in D.C., but, in a wise move, she’d sensed that the hustle and bustle of the city still might be too much for her niece, so she’d researched the most peaceful small towns in northern Virginia before eventually settling on Bellevue. 

 

Alexandria had been in therapy since arriving in Bellevue. As soon as Anya got home from work at six, she’d drive her to a clinic specializing in adolescents two towns over. Apparently, this was to protect Alexandria’s privacy; Anya was terrified that someone at school would find out and try to turn her niece into an outcast, Alexandria had explained. And the therapy was helping, a lot, though Alexandria did have her tougher moments that she still struggled to cope with. But the goal was to have Alexandria as anger-free as possible before college.

 

“Although,” Alexandria says thickly, “maybe I don’t need to worry about being anger-free before college anymore.”

 

“Lexa — can I call you that?” Clarke asks. When Alexandria nods, she smiles and continues, “Lexa, please don’t talk like that. You still have another month and a half. Most regular decision applications are due February 1st. You can still send in some Regular Decision apps to other colleges — maybe a state school or two, or even the community college. Harvard and all those other Ivy Leagues don’t have to be the end-all, be-all. You don’t need to go to a school like that to prove your intelligence, because that’s already so obvious to me and everyone around you.” 

 

Alexandria grins at her with shining eyes, and Clarke has to say that it’s probably the most beautiful thing she’s seen in a while around here. “Thank you, Clark,” she murmurs, pressing a kiss to her cheek. Clarke’s startled by the sudden outburst of affection, but of course she welcomes the touch. It’s when Alexandria doesn’t pull away, when her face continues to hover just an inch or so from Clarke’s, that Clarke realizes what’s going on. 

 

This is their “clicking moment”, as she’s come to call it. The moment when they’ve both finally realized their feelings for each other, and everything just seems to fall into place and, well, _click_ in that moment. It’s when they both know they’re in love, even if they might not want to admit it. Clarke didn’t get to have a clicking moment in the 1980s, when she was Casey Gable and Lexa was Alicia White. The last time she’s had something like this was in 1944, when Caitlin Gallagher and Anneliese Wilhelm sat in a musty bookstore (not too unlike this library, Clarke thinks) and shared stories from their childhood, Anneliese’s in Germany, Caitlin’s in America. 

 

But as Alexandria’s lips meet hers, the taste of spearmint and the scent of lavender overwhelming her senses, Clarke has to admit that this just might be the best moment she’s had yet.

 

∞

Now that they’re officially unofficially together, Clarke’s time with her soulmate flies by. December quickly turns into January, which melts into February and March. April 1st arrives so fast that Clarke barely even has time to panic about it (though panic she does on March 31st). But thankfully, April 1st falls on a Saturday, so Clarke doesn’t have to think twice when Alexandria texts her asking if she wants to come over so they can open their college decisions together.

 

Her hands are shaking too much to tap the little white envelope on her iPhone’s home screen, so Alexandria does it for her. Of course, Stanford’s at the top of the inbox, “Your Admissions Decision from Stanford University” in large, bold letters, practically screaming to be read. Alexandria chuckles at Clarke’s own nervous laugh and asks, “Do you want to do the honors? Or should I?”

 

“Let’s do it together. I open mine, you open yours,” Clarke whispers. Alexandria’s eyes widen, but she quickly pulls out her own phone, e-mail already open and waiting. Clearly, the girl had been debating on whether or not to wait for Clarke to come over.

 

“Ready? Count of three,” Clarke decides, trembling thumb hovering over Stanford’s e-mail. Alexandria’s pointer finger is poised over her screen, ready to open a notification from Virginia Tech, her new top choice since Harvard’s December rejection (and, Clarke’s always felt, probably a better fit for her soulmate, anyway). 

 

“One.” Clarke’s holding her breath, heart banging against her ribcage. A college notification isn’t something Clarke Griffin would particularly stress about, but _Clark_ Griffin is flipping her shit. “Two.” Just to her left, Alexandria bites her lip and leans into her, seeking one last moment of comfort. “Three.” 

 

Clarke’s never read anything so fast, but her eyes manage to scan Stanford’s e-mail at the speed of lightning. _Dear Clark, Congratulations! It is with great pleasure that I offer you admission to the Stanford University Class of 2018_. She freezes, but Clark’s soul is singing. _You did it, Clark. You got in, you got in, you got in!_

 

Clarke’s breath catches, and she suddenly finds that she can’t process anything but the happy tears rolling down her cheeks.Next to her, Alexandria inhales sharply, gripping Clarke’s arm tightly. “Clark, I — I got in,” she whispers. 

 

“Me too, babe,” Clarke shrieks, picking up her soulmate and twirling her in the air in what is probably the worst recreation of _The Notebook_ ever (but they couldn’t care less) until Alexandria’s giggling so hard she can barely tell Clarke to put her down.

 

Later, when the initial euphoria passes, their parents (or Anya, in Alexandria’s case, who had taken the rejection from Harvard incredibly well) and closest friends have been notified, and they’re just enjoying the sheer bliss of each other’s company, Alexandria does something that truly scares her. They’re snuggled together on the couch, hands intertwined, and Clarke can hear the other girl’s heart beating through the thin fabric of her T-shirt. In this moment, she feels like her entire world has been confined to one room. It’s a feeling she hasn’t been able to experience in so long.

 

“Clark?” Alexandria murmurs next to her, moving to sit up.

 

“Yeah?” Clarke answers, mouth instantly going dry. Alexandria sounds so hesitant, so nervous, that for a second, she’s almost worried the girl is about to break up with her. _Maybe this whole soulmate thing has been a farce. Maybe she doesn’t love me back. Oh, god, what if she doesn’t love me back, I knew I could never really get to be this happy for long —_

 

“I know this sounds crazy, but I feel like I’ve known you my whole life,” Alexandria says, green eyes sparkling, voice a little shaky but her choice of words so seemingly certain. “Maybe even longer than that,” she adds after a beat. “The second I bumped into you in that hallway… I sounded so mad, but it was like in that instant, I just _knew_.”

 

Clarke’s heart squeezes painfully at that. “Really?” she croaks, fingers slippery and hot in Alexandria’s cool, dry ones. 

 

“Yeah. Maybe we were soulmates in another life,” Alexandria jokes. Steel clamps down on Clarke’s chest. She knows. She _knows_. Her vision goes fuzzy and she forces herself to try to breathe, even though it feels like her entire world is crashing down around her because _oh god now she knows and just like Titus said I’ve ruined our futures, I’ve ruined everything oh god oh god_ — 

 

“Babe?” Alexandria shakes her shoulder, jolting Clarke out of her panic. “Are you okay?” 

 

Relief tamps down the adrenaline rushing through her veins, and Clarke can finally breathe again. “Yeah,” she whispers, leaning back into her soulmate’s side and allowing her head to fall on her chest. “I’m great.” 

 

And as scary as that moment was, Clarke now knows: they both feel it. Her pain has not been for nothing. And suddenly, as stupid as it might be, she now has this belief, this inner _intuition_ , that one day, everything will work out for them. Her soul feels it, and now Lexa’s soul feels it.

 

She won’t stop fighting. Now she knows she can’t. 

 

∞

One of Clarke’s favorite things about Bellevue has always been the annual spring carnival. For the past twelve years, she’s enjoyed it with friends and family — but this year, for the first time, she’ll get to enjoy it with her soulmate. Clarke starts counting down the days on her calendar a month before.

 

She wants to make it a surprise. Alexandria’s never been to a carnival before, something that hurts her heart if she thinks about it for too long, and Clarke’s determined to make it special for her. She’s so excited that she barely contains her secret, but with Octavia and Raven’s help, she manages to keep calm enough to not spill the beans. It’s hard, but it all instantly becomes worth it when she presents the tickets to Alexandria a week before the carnival and sees the happiness shining in those beautiful green eyes. 

 

Friday, the day of the carnival, Clarke practically jumps out of her seat the second the bell rings, signaling the end of classes and the start of a very happy six hours. Alexandria’s waiting for her at her car, and Clarke can’t help herself — she lets pure euphoria overwhelm her for a few moments, presses her lips to her soulmate’s and practically hums with happiness as the other girl’s arms twine around her waist and pull her in closer. It’s so crazy how, right now, her world is confined to this tiny little parking space, but truthfully, Clarke couldn’t care less. She’s here, with the person she loves, and that’s all that matters for now. 

 

They only break apart when Clarke’s pocket buzzes with a text from Raven — a reminder that they’re supposed to all meet at the carnival in an hour. Normally, the distraction might bother her, but a grin spreads across Clarke’s face, and she lets the irritation roll right off of her as she gets in the car and starts the engine. 

 

They’re going to have the perfect evening. She knows it. 

 

∞

Four hours later, Clarke’s eaten more corn dogs and fried pickles than one human being should be able to consume (and definitely enough to make her mother cringe), Alexandria’s made them go on the one rollercoaster at the fair at least fifty times, and her friends have all had a wonderful time teasing the “lovebirds” (teasing that used to be solely reserved for Lincoln and Octavia). Her stomach aches a little, but her heart is full and her cheeks sore from smiling so much. In all of her timelines, Clarke has never been so happy.

 

Raven, Octavia, Lincoln, Jasper, and Monty decide to split up the group when it gets dark at seven. “Better leave the lovebirds to themselves,” Raven laughs. “I’m sure there’s a Lovers’ Lane ride around here somewhere, right? You guys go have fun. We’ll be at the Go-Karts if you need us.” Her friends leave chuckling and bright-eyed, but it’s nice to have some alone time with her soulmate. That’s something Clarke will never be able to get enough of.

 

They’ve only been alone for a few minutes when Alexandria decides she wants to try a funnel cake (it _is_ a travesty that the girl’s never had one before). Clarke’s stomach protests, but she sits down on a bench to stifle the rumbling and watches as Alexandria heads over to a stand to buy one for them to split. It’s actually nice to be by herself for a second as her stomach settles down, and Clarke tips her head back, shuts her eyes, and just enjoys the cool night air. It’s a wonderful feeling, to let her mind go completely blank for once.

 

Of course, life can’t give her a break for too long, and Clarke’s peace is almost immediately disturbed by a tap on her shoulder and the creak of the bench as someone sits down next to her. Her eyes fly open to glare at her interruptor, and Clarke has to resist the urge to roll her eyes as she’s met with the sight of a guy she’s seen around town a couple of times, probably thirty-ish. She thinks his name is Kevin.

 

“How ya doin’, pretty girl?” the guy leers. “I’ve seen you around before, haven’t I? What’s someone as gorgeous as you doing alone at a carnival, huh?” 

 

Clarke gives him a thin-lipped smile and says, “I’m fine, thanks, but I’m actually here with my girlfriend, so—”

 

“Your girlfriend? So you’re one of them lesbians?” he cackles. “That’s alright, sweetheart, come with me and I’ll make you forget all about that so-called ‘girlfriend’ of yours.” 

 

Something that’s definitely not food, and more like disgust, twists in Clarke’s stomach, and she immediately gets to her feet, body instinctively turning in Alexandria’s direction. “Have a good night,” she spits in the guy’s direction, and then she’s sprinting to the funnel cake stand — 

 

Except she doesn’t quite get there. An ache blooms in Clarke’s wrist, and she looks to her left to see the guy from the bench grabbing it, twisting her arm so she can’t move any further. He grins at her, and Clarke shudders when she sees he’s missing half of his teeth. “C’mon, baby,” he crows. “I promise your night’ll be even better if you spend it with me.” 

 

“Let go of me,” Clarke pleads, a sudden panic rising in her that she can’t quite explain. When the man only tightens his grip, she can feel herself start to lose it as she cries, “Please! You’re hurting me!” _Let me go, let me goletmegoletmego—_

 

The pressure on her arm releases suddenly, and a loud _thud_ rings in the air as the man falls to the ground next to her. “Don’t fucking touch her,” an all-too-sweet voice snarls.

 

It’s Alexandria. It’s Alexandria, and she’s cradling her knuckles and there’s blood spreading on the grass and the man is out cold, and _oh my god_ what just happened — 

 

“Lexa?” Clarke calls out.

 

Something changes in Alexandria’s features as she turns to look at her. Clarke can see the realization of what’s just happened dawning on her, and the anger in her eyes is quickly replaced with what can only be described as pure horror. “Clark,” Alexandria whimpers, and the sound is so pathetic that it makes her heart twist. “Clark, what did I do?” 

 

“Somebody call 911!” a woman a couple feet away from them shrieks. “He’s bleeding!” An employee at the funnel cake stand scrambles for his cell phone, and Clarke watches Alexandria’s hands begin to shake as the people around them begin to punch in numbers on their phones.

 

She’s at her soulmate’s side in an instant. “It’s okay, babe,” she whispers, leading the both of them away from the man, who’s breathing but clearly injured. “It’s okay. You were just protecting me. The police will understand that. He’ll be fine and nothing is gonna happen tous—”

 

“T-the police?” Alexandria stammers. “Oh my god, the police — Clark, my _probation_. They’ll send me back to _jail_. The judge said — the, the judge said—” She’s trembling so much that Clarke’s worried she might break in half.

 

“Lexa, _please_ ,” she begs her soulmate. “Please try to calm down. They’ll understand. It was self-defense. He was threatening me. You’re not going to get sent back to jail, baby, please don’t worry. It’ll be okay. I promise.” 

 

Alexandria doesn’t say anything, just nods and tries to breathe as deeply as she can, fighting to stay calm, but it’s clear her anxiety is winning this battle. “I — I think I need water,” she manages to get out.

 

Clarke nods. “Of course. I’ll go get you some. Just stay right here, and if the police show up, don’t say anything, okay? It’ll be alright,” she murmurs, kissing the top of her soulmate’s head. 

 

“It’ll be alright,” Alexandria repeats softly, but the fear shining in her eyes shows she doesn’t really believe that.

 

“Hey, listen to me — I love you,” Clarke tells her. “I love you so, so much, more than you could ever know, and they’d have to _kill_ me before I’d let something happen to you. I swear to you with everything that I have that you will get through this and we’re going to be okay. _You’re_ going to be okay. I love you. I love you.” She says the words, over and over, not only because it’s the first time she’s said them to this reincarnation of her soulmate, but also because in this moment, they feel incredibly important, more important than they’ve ever been before. She says them, over and over, because she’s not sure if she’ll ever get to say them again. And that thought scares Clarke more than anything.

 

“I love you too,” Alexandria breathes, pulling her in for one more kiss. 

 

If only she’d known it would be their last.

 

∞

When Clarke comes back with the water and Alexandria’s not there, she tries not to panic. She gives the other girl ten minutes — maybe she’s just gone off somewhere to calm down and she’ll be back in a second. _Any minute now,_ Clarke keeps telling herself. _Any minute now, she’llbe back._ She still manages to stay calm when the ambulance and police arrive simultaneously and she’s pulled aside for a few questions. Even when Anya gets there and informs her Alexandria’s not picking up her phone, Clarke is able to keep the anxiety at bay.

 

The second she gets to Alexandria’s house, however, any semblance of calm quickly falls away. 

 

She’d convinced Anya to drive her there — Clarke’s hands were still shaking and she didn’t know if she was in a state to drive. The police allowed her to leave, provided that she came back into the station later for additional questioning (apparently they hadn’t thought to deem her a flight risk). If Alexandria were to go anywhere in a state of panic, Clarke knew she’d be in her own room, probably wrapped up in the ratty old Harvard hoodie her dad had given her as a child. She’s confident she’ll find her soulmate here, even if there’s a strange twisting in Clark’s soul that’s desperate to eat away at that confidence. They’ll sort everything out with the police, take a card to the man in the hospital as an apology, graduate in a month, and spend the summer together. Everything’s going to be okay.

 

But it’s so very not okay, because when Clarke throws open the door to Alexandria’s room, she’s not there. In fact, _nothing_ is there. Her closet has been emptied, and the photo of her and Clarke that she usually keeps by her bed is gone. The only trace the girl has left behind is a piece of lined paper on her nightstand, the edges jagged from where they’d obviously been ripped out from one of her notebooks in a rush. 

 

Clarke picks up the paper and holds it in trembling hands as she reads. It’s a note, filled with hastily-scrawled writing that barely resembles (but, judging by her unique, curly letter _s_ , is definitely hers) the normally-perfect cursive of Alexandria. Clarke swears she can feel her heart threatening to stop as her eyes scan the note. 

 

_Clark,_

_Please know that I love you, but if I’m caught, I’ll go to jail. I don’t know if I could stand being locked away from you for that long. It is because I love you that I’ve left. I promise I’ll be back_

_for you. Please give Anya my love. Thank you for all that you’ve done for me. I’ll see you soon. I love you._

_-Your Lexa_

 

Clark’s soul screams, and with it, Clarke screams, too. 

 

∞

The police issue a warrant for Alexandria. They want to question her, they claim. _Just_ questioning, they reassure Anya. Clarke doesn’t believe them.

 

It’s because of this warrant, she believes, that Alexandria doesn’t ever come back. She gives her a week. Two weeks. A month. Prom comes and goes, and with it, all the wonderful memories she thought she’d get to make. Before she knows it, it’s June, finals week and senior skip day quickly approaching.

 

Anya has already begun to mourn. Clarke lives in a state of denial. _I can’t believe I’m losing her again._ Raven and Octavia try to comfort her — Lincoln, Monty, and Jasper try, too — but Clarke copes with it by settling into an almost robotic routine. Wake up. Eat. Shower. School. Homework. Sleep. Repeat. She doesn’t know what else to do, but she does know that Stanford is the one certainty she has left in a world without her soulmate, so she won’t allow herself to slack and lose her GPA. Her intelligence and hard work have gotten her this far, and hopefully, they’ll be able to carry her through this, too. 

 

Anya asks her to come over two weeks before graduation. _No,_ Clarke wants to say, _not now. Don’t tell me something now. Don’t give me a reason to break when I only have two weeks left to go. Please, can it wait until after graduation?_

 

She doesn’t say anything like that. Instead, she comes over. 

 

Anya makes them some peppermint tea (one of Alexandria’s favorites, Clarke thinks wistfully) and forces her to sit down at the kitchen table. She sits down, too, those intimidating but dangerously beautiful deep brown eyes staring right at her from across the table. Clarke just stares down into her mug, hands wrapped around it as she tries to get some warmth out of the tea (her whole-body shivering still doesn’t stop, though). 

 

“You should know that the police called me into the station this morning,” Anya begins. She’s normally such a confident and reassured woman, but Clarke has never heard her voice so trembly. This is when she knows that whatever Anya is about to say must be bad. “They — they found something.” Her voice cracks on the last word, and Clarke shuts her eyes in anticipation of what’s coming next, the reality of the loss of her soulmate hitting her like a punch to the gut. 

 

“Oh, god,” she says hoarsely. “They found a body, didn’t they?” Wetness blooms on her cheeks as a few tears spill out of the corners of her eyes. 

 

“Look at me, Clark,” Anya whispers. Clarke wishes she didn’t have to, but she opens her eyes anyway and meets Anya’s stare. “They didn’t find a body.”

 

Wild, desperate hope tears through Clarke’s heart, even though Clark’s soul is warning her to be cautious. “Then what did they find?” she asks.

 

“A cell phone,” Anya says softly. “Alexandria’s cell phone. A cashier found it tossed behind a gas station in Bristol and gave it to their local police. They were able to unlock the phone and figured out it was hers pretty quickly, and that’s when they handed it over to our police in Bellevue.”

 

“But I don’t understand,” Clarke muses, “why would the cashier give it to the police? There’s nothing suspicious about a lost iPhone, unless maybe they knew something—”

 

“I don’t know if you’ve seen it in the papers at all, but in the past couple of years there’s been a couple of murders along Route 81,” Anya tells her. “Mainly young girls around your age, all hitchhikers running away from home. A serial killer. The police didn’t have any leads, so they hadn’t been able to catch the guy. But — on Alexandria’s phone —” Her voice breaks again, and Clarke’s chest begins to ache. 

 

“They found a picture,” Anya chokes out. “A picture of a license plate. It was blurry, looked like it’d been taken during a scuffle when the phone was dropped or something, but — the police were able to run it through the system. It belonged to a trucker from that area. He was brought in for questioning, seeing as he might’ve been the last person to encounter Alexandria, but there were a couple holes in his alibi that the police didn’t like. They got a warrant to search his house, and, well —” Anya smiles sadly. “He was the serial killer.”

 

All the air seems to disappear from Clarke’s lungs. “No,” she cries. “No. Don’t tell me that he killed her, Anya, don’t tell me —” Her words dissolve into sobs, and even though Anya comes over to wrap her arms around her, Clarke can’t help but wish that Alexandria was the one holding her. 

 

She was her soulmate. That’s how it should be.

 

∞

They never find a body, but the last picture Alexandria managed to take, coupled with the evidence the police discovered at the trucker’s house, is enough to convict her soulmate’s killer. He’s sentenced to life in prison without parole.

 

Clarke doesn’t know how to get over it. She graduates, she gets through the summer, she goes to Stanford, but everything that was supposed to be vibrant and alive with Alexandria by her side is now hollow and dull. Maintaining her 4.0 GPA is the only thing that keeps her alive, even in the Golden State. California was supposed to make her happy, but with every disgustingly affectionate college couple she sees, it only makes her worse. _Why don’t I ever get to have that? Why does_ my _love never last?_

 

She and her friends go their separate ways, though they always end up back together when they all come home for breaks. To their credit, they do all keep in touch, and Raven and Octavia have been the best about supporting her through her grief, even with the two-AM phone calls and paragraphs of rambling. But once she nears the six-month mark, even their patience begins to waver. “Don’t you think Alexandria would be happy that she brought someone to justice?” Raven asks her one night. “It’s what she would want, Clark. You need to take care of yourself — if not for you, then for her.” 

 

She just can’t get past it. Her soulmate’s final moments must have been so terrible, so full of horror and pain. After reading part of the testimony from the medical examiner who’d conducted autopsies on some of the girls before Alexandria, Clarke had actually thrown up — this guy liked to torture his victims. She has nightmares, dreams where Alexandria’s bleeding and crying, and the last thing she says is, “ _Clark, why did you let me die alone?_ ”

 

The words haunt her more than anyone could possibly know.

 

“Clark,” her therapist calls out, breaking her out of her thoughts. It’s November, she’s back home in Bellevue on Thanksgiving break, and her mother has forced her to finally see a shrink. Clarke can’t say she’s particularly enjoying it, although it is weirdly cathartic in some way. 

 

“Sorry,” she says softly, flashing an apologetic smile her therapist’s way. “Got lost in my thoughts for a second there.”

 

“Understandably. Lexa was special to you, wasn’t she?” 

 

_More than special. One in a million._ “She was.” 


	9. nine

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> a short chapter, i know, but short and sweet is how it needs to be sometimes. thank you for all the wonderful support, even after my extended absence! much love to you all.
> 
> (note: if this chapter feels cold at the beginning, that's because it's meant to be cold; it's supposed to reflect clarke's headspace in this life.)
> 
> i hope you enjoy. we're almost at the end, darlings.

_nine._

By the time she reaches her next incarnation, Clarke isn’t sure if she can take another heartbreak. Losing Alexandria in 2015 nearly ripped her soul apart; losing whatever version of Lexa she encounters in this lifetime may very well kill her.

 

She doesn’t have parents in this life. She’s orphaned at a young age, goes through foster parent after foster parent but never finds a home that really fits. She’s subjected to some government testing at age 6, and when her results come back, they test her again. And again. And again. Finally, when Clarke hits 7, the CIA decide to take her in.

 

She’s a member of a special task force — youth trained by the government to be killers, cold, calculating, and cunning. After all her losses, Clarke wants nothing more than to be that: robotic, unfeeling. However, it’s a job easier said than done — her soul is still _her soul_ , and Clarke Griffin is far too stubborn to let the CIA completely mold her into a heartless assassin. But she tries. Really, she does. She doesn’t make friends, keeps to herself whenever possible, and kicks the ass of even the cutest kids in training. Clarke Griffin takes no prisoners in this life. 

 

She is finally Clarke Griffin in this timeline, and to be able to go by her true name is one of her sole comforts here, though she’s more often called “Griffin” than just “Clarke”. It’s the only remnant Clarke has left of her real life, which, strangely enough, she’s beginning to miss more and more with every day that passes. It’s not that Clarke wants to return to a world without Lexa, a world where Bellamy’s slaughtered hundreds of Grounders and Pike is desperate for control. It’s not the sadness that she misses. It’s the smaller, happier moments: the soft touch of her mother’s hands on her shoulder, Raven’s roaring laugh, Octavia’s devilish grin. She misses bonfires with the rest of the delinquents and the bittersweet sting of Arkadian moonshine. There’s no such thing as comfort in this life, and while there have been moments that Clarke’s reincarnations’ souls have liked in previous lives, they don’t feel as personal to her. It’s not the same. It’s not like getting a hug from someone she loves or laughing with her best friends. It’s just not. 

 

And, of course, it’s nothing like kissing Lexa.

 

She keeps track of every day she spends here, because it’s the only thing that reminds her this won’t last forever. Clarke is seventeen years, three months, and twenty-two days old when she’s called into her mentor’s office for an “important briefing”. John is fifty-something, gray and balding, but still has the figure of a well-trained assassin. That’s probably thanks to the countless hours he’s spent fighting with Clarke and honing her body to become a well-oiled machine. That’s what the CIA wanted for her, and that’s what John did. He’s never been particularly kind, though he’s grunted her way a couple of times on her most off days, but he’s never been mean, either, and so Clarke can’t hate him, no matter how much she wants to. She hates pretty much everything about this place, because it’s failed her. She didn’t want to feel anymore, not after losing Alexandria, but even here, she still feels. But that’s not John’s fault. And so she can’t hate him. Even though she’s tried. 

 

John’s not alone when Clarke walks in. An all-too-familiar figure has pulled up a chair by his desk — the solemn, hulking man she once knew as Titus. It makes Clarke shiver to see him again, even if he doesn’t know her in this timeline or all the ways he’s ruined her life before. But Titus’s reincarnation is not the only new face in John’s office — next to where Clarke would normally sit, across from where John and Titus 2.0 are now, there’s another spot, occupied by a tall, dark-haired girl.

 

It’s Lexa. Clarke’s soul knows the moment she sees her, and her heart thrills at the thought before the other girl can even turn around to confirm her suspicions.

 

Carrying herself on shaking legs, Clarke manages to shut the door behind her and ease herself into the chair next to her soulmate. She can feel every pair of eyes in the room on her, and she absolutely hates it. Even her soulmate’s presence barely makes it worth it.

 

“Glad you could join us, Griffin,” John says gruffly, his tone just hinting at his slight irritation. Clarke knows she’s a couple minutes late, but she hadn’t exactly been expecting company, and John usually doesn’t mind if it’s only a few minutes. Apparently, Titus 2.0 and her soulmate’s presence changes that. 

 

“My apologies, John,” Clarke responds smoothly. “It won’t happen again.”

 

“Good to know. Griffin, I’d like to introduce you to Agent Titus and his mentee, Alexandra Vasilevsky.” John gestures to Titus 2.0 first, then the girl sitting next to her. Clarke’s breath catches as her soulmate turns to look at her and those familiar features fill her vision for the first time in too many years. Alexandra doesn’t smile, but simply nods — another _heda_ gesture that Clarke desperately misses. 

 

“Alexandra will be pairing with you to carry out your first major mission,” John continues. “She’s your senior, so she has more experience than you do — that means you need to listen to her, Griffin, and do whatever she says. Your target is Harry Esposito, an Italian mafia boss in New York City who’s been causing problems for the CIA lately. Should be a fairly simple hit — you’ll be attending a charity dinner together, slip a vial in his drink, get out when you can without looking too suspicious, and that’s that.” 

 

“You will be given two weeks to prepare for your task,” Titus speaks up. Gone is the distinctive accent that Clarke once knew so well, but his voice is still as deep and gravelly as ever. “Until your departure for New York City via flight on April 3rd, 2034,you two will train together, eight hours a day, six days a week. This is to ensure that you are as well-equipped as possible to handle any possible retaliation or attacks from Esposito’s cronies,” he adds. “However, do not mistake this training time as an opportunity for friendship. This work is lonely for a reason. To attempt to develop a friendship would only lead to devastating consequences for you both, so I suggest you not try it.” 

 

Clarke’s cheeks flush. Titus’s warning now harks back to the one a different Titus had made, back in a world where she had _her_ Lexa, words not intended for her, but words she’d heard through closed doors anyway. _“Your feelings for Clarke put both of you in danger.” “To be commander is to be alone.”_

 

He’d been right then. Why wouldn’t he be right now?

 

Clarke can’t kill her soulmate again. She won’t allow it.

 

And so, she resolves, she’ll channel _wanheda_ the best she can and be as icy-cold as possible. Her love for her soulmate cannot blossom this time around. She’s made that mistake in too many lives already — and every time, she’s paid the price.

 

Not again. Not _ever_ again. 

 

∞

They train together, but Clarke learns to see Alexandra as a blank-faced attacker, a blurred figure in her peripheral vision, rather than as a partner or a soulmate. Thankfully, Alexandra’s just as cold as she tries to be, and so her soulmate makes her job a lot easier for her than Clarke had anticipated. 

 

It’s the day of the mission before they know it. They’re shipped off to the airport with two evening gowns, two pairs of heels, enough makeup and styling tools to rival the set of a Hollywood film, and a duffel bag each for their overnight stay. Their guns, of course, have already been transported to their hotel room in New York, courtesy of a local agent.

 

Alexandra ignores her on the flight. Clarke puts the free earbuds in and falls asleep to, ironically enough, the latest James Bond movie. Her fellow assassin-in-training wakes her up with a not-so-gentle tap to the shoulder, and Clarke tries to pretend the touch doesn’t make her skin burn.

 

The CIA puts them up in the fanciest hotel Clarke’s ever seen, right near Central Park. Their room is furnished in an elegant yet refined fashion, and Clarke loves it — she drinks in every detail, letting her eyes scan every corner and her hands brush every piece of furniture. For all she knows, it could be the last beautiful thing she ever sees (although with Alexandra by her side, that’s probably not likely). 

 

“Clarke,” Alexandra calls out. Clarke startles, glancing up from her spot by the massive window overlooking Fifth Avenue; she’s been caught daydreaming on the job, a mistake she prays her partner will be kind enough to keep quiet about. 

 

“Sorry,” she mutters. “Just enjoying the view for a second while we have a minute to spare.”

 

“We don’t _have_ a minute to spare,” Alexandra says sharply. The tone is so very Lexa, so _Commander_ , that it makes Clarke’s chest ache. “We have a job to do, remember? We can’t afford to sit around and waste time. Save your daydreaming for _after_ the hit.” 

 

It’s easier to dislike Alexandra than any of Lexa’s other reincarnations. Still, it makes Clarke miss her _heda_ all the more.

 

∞

It’s easier to dislike Alexandra, but disliking her is still one hell of a task, especially when she meets Clarke in the hotel’s lobby that evening in a dress that takes her breath away — a deep shade of plum that brings out the green of her eyes and form-fitting enough to make Clarke a little uncomfortable, Alexandra looks positively stunning tonight. The words fall out of Clarke’s mouth before she can help it: “You look beautiful.”

 

Surprisingly, her sentiment is echoed. “So do you,” Alexandra murmurs in her ear, sending shivers down Clarke’s spine as they step out of the lobby and into their waiting limo. The heat on her skin dies down, though, when Clarke feels the cool metal of the vial of poison, disguised in a necklace, against her collarbone. She remembers what they’re both here to do, and the awe of Alexandra next to her and the glamorous limo around them very quickly fades away.

 

They carry out the hit successfully. Apart from a ginger-headed man who stares at Clarke a second longer than she’d like, nobody seems to notice their presence, and their target is most definitely just as dead as the CIA wanted him by the time they leave. 

 

Clarke’s never killed before, but John told her back at home base that Alexandra was no stranger to hits. Still, there’s a strange euphoria in their shared kill, even though Alexandra was technically the one to put the poison in their target’s drink and Clarke had acted as more of a distraction. There’s a sense of _surviving_ together, a reminder of the campaign Clarke and her _heda_ had carried out against Mount Weather, and it has them both riding on a bizarre kind of high. 

 

It’s why, when they get back to their hotel room and find a bottle of champagne waiting for them, accompanied by a card reading “Happy anniversary!” (code, of course, that Titus and John had mentioned sending before if the mission went successfully), Clarke doesn’t hesitate to uncork it and try to down the whole thing. It’s why, when Alexandra joins her in celebrating with the champagne, Clarke doesn’t stop to analyze it or ask her if she’s feeling alright. 

 

It’s why she presses her lips to Alexandra’s, and why the other girl kisses her back. It’s why Alexandra’s hands settle on her hips at first and, soon enough, start to unzip her dress. 

 

It’s why she lets Alexandra lower her onto the bed and make her forget.

 

∞

When Clarke wakes up the next morning, still tangled in the sheets from last night, Alexandra’s dressed and ordered room service. Clarke watches her pack, admiring the way she bites her lip as she concentrates, how stupidly organized she is. A part of her aches for this kind of life with Lexa, the domesticated happiness she never got to have with her Commander. Maybe their feeling of shared sacrifice wouldn’t have been the same, but at least her soulmate wouldn’t have died at the hands of her own advisor. 

 

Clarke’s just pulled on the comfiest clothes she can find when there’s a knock on the door. She’s still focused on zipping up the ridiculously-tight black jeans the CIA had given her, so Alexandra goes to answer. 

 

She doesn’t even hear the shot ring out. 

 

It’s the _thud_ of Alexandra hitting the ground that she hears.

 

Clarke’s at her nightstand in an instant, fumbling for the gun she’d stashed away there yesterday, before the girl now on the floor took her in her arms and made her feel temporarily whole again. 

 

She only recognizes the man running from their still-open door as she fires one, two, three shots into him. It’s the ginger-haired man from the dinner, the one who’d looked at her a little longer than Clarke would’ve liked. _Stupid,_ Clarke curses herself. _You should’ve known there was something off about him. Should’ve known… should’ve known…_

 

She’s vaguely aware of herself screaming at the security guard who’s rushed into the hallway to call 911, but the reality of her situation doesn’t really hit her until Clarke kneels by Alexandra’s side and sees the damage the hitman has done. 

 

Her blood is vivid red, not black, and the wound is to her chest, not her stomach, but her soulmate is still dying underneath her, still trying to formulate words with her last, gasping breaths, and it’s such a parallel to losing Lexa that Clarke can physically feel something breaking within her.

 

She’s been through so much. She’s died so many times, had so many die before her eyes, and she is done. She is through with losing the only person who ever makes her whole. She is sick of finding her lover’s blood spattered everywhere she goes, and she is tired of wondering when the next trauma will occur. She wants her life back, her _real_ life, not the life of someone who looks just like her but loses just as much. She wants to see her mother. She wants to hear Raven laugh again, to hug Octavia once more, to have Bellamy comfort her and in turn comfort him back. She wants to watch Jasper and Monty do something dumb and scold them for it later, and she wants to giggle to herself as Kane tries to work up the courage to tell her mother how he really feels. And most of all, she wants Lexa back.

 

But the thing she wants most is also the one thing she, under all circumstances, cannot have. Because Lexa isn’t there anymore. Lexa’s _dead_ , just like all the others who came before her, and just like Alexandra will be soon. 

 

And suddenly, all rational thought falls away. Clarke Griffin falls away, too. In this moment, she is simply _Wanheda_ , desperate and reckless and _broken_.

 

“Lexa, please,” she cries. “Come back to me.”

 

“W— what?” Alexandra wheezes. Her blood is wet on Clarke’s fingers, and it makes her see the same shade of red. 

 

“You’re not Alexandra,” Clarke says softly, Titus’s warning ringing in her head but her heart telling her to forget caution and continue on anyway. “I mean, you are, but you’re also Lexa. I’m Agent Clarke Griffin, but I’m also just regular Clarke Griffin, and Casey Gable, and a million other people. We’re _reincarnations_ , but we’re also _soulmates_.”

 

“I don’t understand,” Alexandra breathes. Her eyes are starting to go blank; she’s slipping away. Clarke can hear the sirens of the ambulance downstairs. They don’t have much time. She has to go through with this, fully now, or she doesn’t know what will happen.

 

“We’re destined to end up together. I don’t know why, or how, but our souls are intertwined. We’re never truly happy if we’re not with each other. And I’m really from a hundred and sixteen years in the future. And you get reincarnated as a commander, a wonderful, amazing, _strong_ person named Lexa, and we — we fell in love,” Clarke chokes out, tears falling from her eyes faster than she can wipe them away. “And then she — _you_ died. And there was a potion, I was given a potion so I could go back and relive all of these lifetimes with you, and I did, but — I miss you so much, Lexa, _let’s go home_ , come back to me, _please_ —” She wants to dissolve into sobs, even though she knows it’s the selfish thing to do when Alexandra’s dying next to her, but Clarke manages to control her weeping, even though her shoulders are shaking with how badly she wants to just _collapse_.

 

“That can’t be true,” Alexandra rasps.

 

Clarke has to make her understand. “But it _is_ true,” she says fiercely, staring into her lover’s dulling eyes. “You weren’t Special Agent Alexandra Vasilevsky in every life. You were Alainne. You were Livia. You were Alice. Amelia, Anneliese, Alicia, Alexandria, Lexa, _heda_ — you’ve been them all. And I’ve loved you every time. Tell me you remember. Tell me you didn’t forget.” _Please believe me,_ Clarke begs, silently to Alexandra but oh so loudly in her own head. _You have to believe me. I can’t lose you again._

 

And suddenly, Clarke sees the most beautiful thing she’s been able to see in a while: a soft smile, the corners of Alexandra’s lips turning up as she whispers, “Of course, Clarke. In this life, I did not remember, but my soul always will. How could I ever forget you, _hodnes_?” 

 

Her eyes shut, and the world shatters around them. 


	10. ten

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> an even shorter chapter!! ahh! i'm sorry! 
> 
> (don't worry a super long epilogue is coming up.) 
> 
> thank you for the support as always. much love. <3

_ten._

"Clarke?” 

 

She knows that voice. Soft, comforting. But she’s tired, she’s so tired, she doesn’t want to wake up — 

 

“Come back to us, Clarke, you can’t give up now—”

 

“Abby, we need to get her to the infirmary —”

 

_Abby._ Abby. _Mom._

 

Clarke’s eyes fly open as she gasps out, “Mom?”

 

“I’m here, baby, I’m here,” her mother cries, pulling Clarke to her chest and hugging her tight. The world around her disappears, if only for a moment, in her mother’s arms, and in spite of the thousands of questions running through her head, it makes Clarke feel safe.

 

Abby lets her go after a minute, and Clarke looks up to see Bellamy and Jaha standing over them. “We were worried about you, Clarke,” Bellamy says gently. “You came back to camp with blood on your shirt, and you wouldn’t let us in your room, and —” He swallows hard and has to take a second to compose himself before continuing. “When we finally got in here, you were unconscious. You were so cold. Pale. Barely even breathing. We couldn’t wake you up. What happened?” he asks quietly.

 

“And what’s in that vial?” Jaha adds, gesturing to the shattered glass on the floor.

 

Clarke’s mouth open and closes, but no words are coming out. She doesn’t know what to say. What _is_ there to say? How can she possibly explain what she’s been through, the thousands of years and lifetimes that have just passed for her in what’s probably been a duration of a couple minutes in their time? Would they even believe her? It _is_ pretty far-fetched — even Clarke had been a skeptic at first, when Titus initially gave her the potion, and she’s way more optimistic than Bellamy, Jaha, or her mother. 

 

And how does she explain Lexa? That crazy, infinite connection — the one that, she’s now reminded again, she’s just so recently lost in this lifetime, her _real_ lifetime. It hits Clarke like a ton of bricks, and she finds tears gathering in her eyes before she can even begin to craft a quick response to Bellamy and Jaha’s questions.

 

Luckily for her, Clarke doesn’t have to come up with a reply, as the sound of shrieking very quickly rings throughout the hallway and the scent of earth fills her room as three figures, one of them devastatingly familiar, storm past the twisted mess of her door.

 

“ _Skai_ girl,” Indra snarls. “It is time to pay for your crimes.”

 

Clarke is on her feet in an instant, Abby following suit, as Bellamy and Jaha take a defensive stance in front of them, shielding the Griffin women from the faces Clarke is actually so happy to see. “Who are you?” Jaha demands. “And what is the meaning of this? _Skai_ girl? Who’s that?”

 

“It’s me,” Clarke calls out, stepping past the men and her mother until she’s no more than a few inches from Indra. Two Grounder warriors flank Lexa’s right hand, men that Clarke thinks she’s seen guarding Polis before. Indra has certainly brought her best with her — although, of course, that’s understandable, given the nature of the crime they believe Clarke’s committed. 

 

“Clarke, what’s going on here?” Abby murmurs, eyes darting back and forth between Indra, her warriors, and her daughter. “Do you know these people?” 

 

Clarke can feel her face twisting in confusion at that. _Do you know these people? What?_ “Mom, of course I know Indra, she’s —”

 

“ _Shof op_ ,” Indra hisses, momentarily forgetting that Clarke only speaks one language. “Quiet,” she repeats. “We have no time for pleasantries. _Klark Griffin_ of the Sky People, you slit the throat of Titus kom trikru, advisor to our Commander and member of the Old Guard. For this crime, you will pay dearly. _Gonakru, teik em we_.” 

 

Clarke’s hands are behind her back, the warriors grabbing her and trying to lead her away, before she knows it. Abby, Bellamy, and Jaha try to follow, screaming threats of warfare and battle, but Clarke shouts, “It’s okay! I’ll be back!” as the _gonakru_ and Indra throw her onto a waiting horse.

 

She won’t be back. In a world without Lexa, they’ll kill her for what they think she’s done to Titus. And with the current state of Arkadian-Grounder affairs, Indra and her people aren’t likely to believe anything Clarke says, even if it’s the truth. 

 

It’s okay, though. It’s okay.

 

That’s what Clarke tells herself as the blindfold wraps around her eyes and leaves her seeing nothing. 

 

∞

When they reach Polis, Clarke is quite unceremoniously thrown into what she assumes to be the throne room, and she’s left shivering on her knees, a cold breeze sweeping through her. Clarke can picture the throne room in her mind, memories from her time spent here with Lexa filling in what her vision can’t do for her right now — she’d bet anything the chill is blowing through the thin curtains that separate the balcony from the actual room. 

 

_Lexa_. She’d seen Lexa standing on that balcony too many times to count, and it makes her heart hurt. Clarke had told Alexandra about their reincarnations to get back to a world where the _real_ Lexa had at least once existed, but she’s quickly realizing that even that world isn’t much better than any of the rest. Everything is still too painful, and she wants to make it go away, even if it means she gets reincarnated again. She can’t stand it any longer. Maybe in her next life, she won’t remember all of this. She hopes she doesn’t.

 

It’ll end soon. Whoever the new Commander is will surely not be as lenient as Lexa, and they’ll have her executed on the spot for Titus’s suicide. Clarke can only pray that her death won’t be too painful; her deaths as Cybil and Clara were both painful enough, and Clarke’s entire body shudders at the memories. Fire and dulled guillotine blade are methods she doesn’t want to experience again.

 

“ _Teik bilaik_.”

 

The rich, low voice of the Commander rings throughout the room, and Clarke feels the warmth of a _gona_ ’s hand brushing her cheek as her blindfold is removed. It makes her tremble; that will probably be her last human contact in this life. 

 

“So you are Clarke of the Sky People. And a murderer, apparently.”

 

Clarke raises her head and meets the eyes of the person sitting on the throne. Defiant, vibrant, emerald green eyes.

 

“Lexa,” she breathes.

 

_I got you back._


	11. epilogue

_epilogue._

"Lexa ,” she breathes.

 

“How dare you disrespect the Commander in such a way,” a _gona_ spits next to her. He turns to Lexa and hisses, “Heda, she must be punished for her—”

 

“Enough, Kemal,” Lexa interrupts, raising a hand to silence the warrior. “Allow me to decide what this girl’s crimes merit. Leave us — all of you.”

 

The _gonakru_ stationed all around the throne room mumble their complaints, but Lexa shoots them an icy glare, and the room falls quiet as they file out into the hallway. Then it’s just the two of them, Lexa so intimidatingly beautiful in her full _heda_ attire, Clarke shaking like she never has before. Because this can’t be real, can it? There’s no way she was lucky enough to mess up their timelines to the point where she got to find Lexa again. But even if she has been lucky enough for that to happen, that’s not to say she won’t lose Lexa another time — she could die at any moment, Clarke thinks, chest tightening at the mere thought of it. Maybe Ontari will be her end this time, or an assassin, perhaps her new advisor is just as murderous as Titus — 

 

“Can you stand?” Lexa asks, breaking the silence. Clarke shakes her head, not trusting herself to speak yet. She gestures with her chin to her hands, which are still bound behind her back. “Stay still,” Lexa commands, slipping a knife out of her coat. Clarke freezes — maybe her interfering with the timelines has changed Lexa, made her different. She’ll die by a thousand cuts after all for what the Grounders believe she’s done. Of course she wouldn’t be lucky enough to get to keep Lexa for long. 

 

Clarke shuts her eyes as Lexa approaches with the knife. Maybe she’ll just end her like Titus had ended himself, a quick slit to the throat — surely she won’t be so cruel as to drag it out. Clarke feels the cool metal of the blade on her skin and inhales deeply, taking one last breath — 

 

as the knife slices through the ropes and frees her hands. 

 

Clarke lets out a gasp of surprise, cradling her aching wrists to her chest as Lexa tosses the rope to the side and kneels before her until they’re face-to-face. Green eyes meet blue, and Clarke could cry for all the softness she finds in that gaze. “How did you know my name?” Lexa demands. “The Conclave only ended a month ago, and your ambassador, Okteivia—”

 

“Octavia?” Clarke whispers. Of course — the only other person at Camp Jaha with strong ties to the Grounders (or, at least, the only other rational person — Clarke wouldn’t exactly trust Murphy to be a good ambassador). 

 

“Yes, Okteivia kom skaikru,” Lexa says, brow furrowing. “The ambassador your people sent to work with the Commander before me. She left two weeks ago with Linkon to control the situation with your chancellor, Pike. Surely she has not had ample time to return to your camp and inform you of my ascension. So tell me, how do you know my name?”

 

A wry smile crosses Clarke’s features. “What would you say if I told you the Commander’s spirit gave me your name?” It’s a shot in the dark, a desperate hope that something in Lexa’s soul will tell her to trust Clarke, but she does it anyway — any other lie would be quickly debunked by the commander, and Clarke can’t afford to risk her trust in that manner.

 

Lexa’s eyes widen, shock flashing across her features, before she quickly clears her throat, forces her face to go stoic, and says calmly, “I suppose I’d have to tell you that if the Commander’s spirit gave you my name, our meeting must be truly made in the stars.”

 

_Oh, Lexa,_ Clarke thinks, _if only you knew the half of it._

 

∞

Clarke doesn’t think she’ll ever really understand how this all worked out the way it did. How the words she spoke to Alexandra that bloody morning changed her entire fate, _Lexa’s_ fate. How every previous interaction between _Leksa kom trikru_ and Clarke Griffin got erased and turned into interactions with the Commander before her. The attack on Mount Weather? Planned with the previous Commander. The betrayal? An act of the previous Commander. The skirmishes between Grounders and Arkadians? All overseen by the previous Commander.

 

This previous Commander dies by Titus’s hand, too, an unfortunate mistake that Clarke decides not to ask about. Lexa won her Conclave easily, Aden (younger in this altered life, and therefore too young to fight) watching from the sidelines. She’d only been Commander for a month when Titus committed suicide in the woods to avoid his scheduled execution (delayed by altercations with Pike’s army on the borders of Grounder territory). 

 

Nia is still dead, Roan already King of the Ice Nation again, Ontari still a lurking threat that Clarke worries about even more than Lexa does. Indra — newly-appointed general under Lexa, which was why Abby hadn’t recognized her at Camp Jaha — has already proven her worth by offering Ontari a choice: carefully-monitored training to become a warrior in Polis, or permanent exile. Ontari had wisely chosen the training.

 

Indra doesn’t like her at first. She’s the first to yell at Clarke for calling the Commander “ _Lexa_ ” before even being formally introduced (like she even needs an introduction; Clarke knows Lexa’s name, body, and soul better than she knows her own). But she comes around eventually. 

 

It’s so much easier with Lexa. She loves Clarke the moment they meet — it’s there in her eyes, the way they soften after Clarke says her name. Clarke loves her more than she’ll ever know. Lexa’s not consciously aware of all the lives they’ve shared, and Clarke will never tell her — can’t even bear to contemplate telling her, lest she relive the spilling of that awful black blood again. But somewhere, deep in Lexa’s subconscious, Clarke thinks she knows. No, scratch that — _knows_ she knows. She’s even softer than before this time around, her touch all the more tender and her determination to save Clarke and their people all the fiercer. Her love burns so bright it nearly consumes them both alive — but Clarke learned her lesson last time. She knows how to touch a flame without being burned now. 

 

Lexa pardons her for Titus’s death. Moments after their ( _re_ -)introduction, a medic had come running into the room and informed the Commander of, upon careful examination of the angle at which Titus’s throat had been slit, their decision that Titus’s death had been a suicide after all, not a homicide. Clarke thinks that Lexa would have pardoned her anyway — she could see her wavering upon Clarke’s retelling of Titus’s suicide — and that’s just another reassurance that she knows. Lexa may be alive once again, their slate wiped blank to start anew, but their love is still the same, no matter how they meet. They trust each other, even as total strangers, and they love more than they’d ever believed they could.

 

Their love is by no means slow even the second time around, but it is still slower than their original journey. They start off by working together, brainstorming ways to quell Pike’s thirst for blood (it still ends in bloodshed, however, when Octavia ends his life for torturing Lincoln as punishment for rebellion) and planning strategies to appease the nations who are worried by the Arkadians’ presence. Clarke is ambassador after a month and a half. She’s been ambassador for another month when Lexa announces the entry of the 13th clan into the coalition, marking the debut of _Skaikru_. The ceremony is even more beautiful this time, Clarke’s adoration for the girl kneeling before her all the more intense now that she knows what it’s like not to have her at all. She cries during it, and while she hears the whispers of some members of the other clans who like to call her weak, Lexa silences them all with a glare that Clarke is sure could level a thousand men. 

 

Lexa comes to her room for the first time after the initiation ceremony. The memory of the hours after Lexa’s battle with Roan in their first life together pokes at Clarke’s mind, and when she calls out to a departing Lexa, “ _Reshop, heda_ ,” the Commander turns around and presses her lips to Clarke’s.

 

It’s their first kiss, but there will be many more to follow. 

 

Knowing what a life without Lexa is like makes everything so much more _valuable_. Clarke tucks every moment, every memory away in her mind like a precious jewel. She sketches Lexa whenever she can, scared she’ll otherwise wake up one day and find she’s forgotten. She takes every kiss, every touch she can get, because Clarke knows what it’s like to not have Lexa close, and every one of those touches seems to heal the pain of that knowledge a little more. Maybe one day, she can savor those touches just for what they are, _touches_ , and not their additional healing properties.

 

Her life here in Polis with Lexa is so beautiful, so vivid, a life that Clarke is so happy to have that she’s almost scared to live it. Her first few months with Lexa by her side are months she spends in constant fear. Every loud noise becomes a gunshot in Clarke’s ears; every spill of ink turns into spatters of blood. Sometimes she wakes up crying for seemingly no reason at all; other times she has nightmares so realistic that Lexa has to shake her awake to end her screams. Every moment that Clarke’s not with Lexa, she worries she might lose her. When Roan’s people try to revolt against him in a small section of the Ice Nation and engage in a small border skirmish with the Desert Clan, an advisor suggests that Lexa go out there herself and convince Roan’s subjects of his worthiness as king. Clarke finds herself gasping for air at this, and after Lexa’s taken her aside and calmed her down, her _heda_ resolves that she won’t go anywhere without Clarke by her side. _I won’t leave you,_ hodnes _,_ she promises that day. _If I have to go, you can go with me. We will fight together if we must, but loneliness is something I will never let you know for as long as you allow me to be yours._

 

∞

In their moments of peace, the times when every clan is behaving as it should and Clarke’s people are calm, Clarke finds refuge in the library. Peace is a foreign thing to her now, something she doesn’t entirely trust — her entire soul has been built on conflict and war and distress — so she’s forced to seek comfort in something tangible and solid, something she can hold and come back to whenever she needs. Normally, that’d be Lexa, but _heda_ duties come first, of course, and so Clarke’s second option becomes the Polis library.

 

The only problem with this is that the majority of the books are in Trigedasleng, which Clarke is still in the process of learning, so her catalogue of available readings is cut down to the higher-level books, which are exclusively in English. These books are mostly theories, scientific research and war accounts, but one day, Clarke finds something far more intriguing than that.

 

It’s a book on soulmates. The same book that Titus likely once read to make the potion that would forever change Clarke’s life. The same book that details what soulmates are, why they exist, and how you know you’ve found yours.

 

It takes Clarke a month to finish it, but the final pages make it all worth it. _Once soulmates have finally found happiness together_ , the book reads, _their souls will be at rest, finished transforming in the hopes of successfully keeping their soulmate. In that life, when these souls pass, they will pass on together, one’s death heralding the other’s, never to be reincarnated again. Then, they will find peace, in a plane this world knows not how to reach yet, destined to be with the one they love most for eternity._

 

Clarke buys the book from the library. It never leaves her chambers.

 

She’ll never stop praying that they’ve found their happy ending.

 

∞

Lexa knows not to pry about what she calls the “countless untold stories” in Clarke’s eyes, but sometimes, she does ask.

 

“ _Klark_ ,” she murmurs one balmy summer afternoon, bodies intertwined and tangled up in the cool cotton sheets, Clarke’s head tucked into her shoulder, “how did the Commander’s spirit know to find you? Did she ever tell you why?”

 

It’s then that Clarke almost tells her. She does want to, has this intense desire to share her pain with the one person in the world who she knows can make it all go away. But is that really fair? Would it be fair, to make Lexa live in the same constant fear that Clarke does?Would it be fair, to tell her everything and risk forcing her to relive every painful death, every loss? Would it be fair at all? 

 

She settles for a half-truth, because it’s not really a lie to say that she doesn’t know how they met, right? There’s no way to explain how _they_ , out of the hundreds of billions of people who have ever lived, became soulmates, how their souls decided they were perfect for one another. Clarke has her theories, but of course there’s no solid answer. They may never find out. 

 

“No, _ai hodnes,_ ” she says quietly, and Lexa hums contentedly at the Trigedasleng. “I don’t know why.” 

 

Lexa hesitates before speaking again. “My people have a theory,” she whispers. “They say that some souls are forever connected. Meant to be. _Keryon lukot_ — I believe your people would call it a ‘soulmate’.” 

 

Clarke stiffens. “Soulmate,” she repeats.

 

“Yes.” Lexa shifts, turns on her side so they’re face-to-face. She’s _glowing_ , lit from within with happiness, and Clarke wishes more than ever that she had a camera so she could capture this moment. Her charcoal and sketchpad will have to do, if she can remember to draw it later. “ _Klark kom skaikru_ ,” she says slowly, “I believe you are my _keryon lukot._ My soulmate.” 

 

Lexa holds her gaze, and there’s an unspoken pleading in it, a _please tell me you think the same thing_ , and Clarke can only smile as she pulls Lexa to her and kisses her. “Yes,” she tells her. “Yes. You’re my soulmate, Lexa. And I love you.” 

 

∞

This confession leaves her certain: they have found their happy ending.

 

The heavy anxiety, the pressing weight of Calla, Clarke, and all the other lifetimes in between, leaves her soul. Now, she is simply Clarke Griffin, _Klark kom skaikru_ , ambassador to the 13th Clan of the Commander’s Coalition and the soulmate of _Leksa kom trikru_ , _heda_ to her people and the world to Clarke. 

 

Clarke doesn’t know how it’ll end. She’s not sure if maybe she’ll get sick one day, or if Lexa might decide to fight the wrong person, or if any of a million deaths might befall them, but — but it’s okay. Because Clarke knows that in this life, they will depart this shore together, and in love, they will find the next. 

 

She is not scared anymore, because she knows one thing, no matter what happens:

 

They will meet again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'll admit that the epilogue was shorter than I'd thought it would be, but I felt like I ended it where it needed to end. I hope you're not disappointed with me, and I hope that I've done Clarke and Lexa one eighth of the justice they deserve. 
> 
> This story has been so incredible for me to write, and truly cathartic. I was angry after we lost Lexa, and sad, too, but writing We Will Meet Again helped, so thank you for giving me the opportunity to do that and share it with the world. Thank you for the support, kind comments, and kudos. 
> 
> If I could ask you all one favor, it would be that you comment and tell me what your favorite line from this story has been. I'm just curious to know what you guys liked best. Also, let me know if you all want me to post the playlist that I wrote We Will Meet Again to.
> 
> Thank you for reading. May we meet again! :)


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